


All the Shades of Gray

by D12fan



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 163,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17372051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D12fan/pseuds/D12fan
Summary: Choosing a quiet life in a tumultuous city, Armie has had enough of miracles. But they are annoying little things, and sometimes they don’t take no for an answer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It is all fiction. No offense was meant. If you find something hurtful here, please believe that it’s the result of author’s stupidity, not intentional malice.  
> *  
> Probably it shouldn’t have been written at all, but idea, as was noted, is the most resilient parasite. It demands attention.  
> *  
> I’m learning and try to do my best. Criticism helps. Readers, not writers, make the words meaningful.

Let’s be alone together.

Let’s see if we're that strong.

 

-Leonard Cohen, Sharon Robinson

 

Bright red and devastating, they lie on the floor at his feet.

Electric.

Vivacious.

Carnal.

Armie looks at the shards for a long moment and swallows.

Last piece of her gone, he thinks and then corrects himself – last piece of Liz that he could hold and keep to himself.

His little stolen treasure.

His artefact of the fallen kingdom.

Her coffee mug.

It was bound to happen – three years is a long time, little by little all those little things that remind him of her have been disappearing one by one, like drops of watercolors in a river of days. The photos are left, but he rarely looks at them now, with rare few where they are together forgotten in the albums and never displayed.

Liz is not dead, of course. Lis is alive and happy.

Armie is very, _very_ happy for her.

But this red cup is gone and for a second he can’t breathe.

He will, of course. Life is persistent. Biology is a bitch. He will breathe, and sweep it up, and dress, and go to work. 1735 steps to the underground station. 736 steps on the other side – to his office.

He will breathe and live and walk.

And when Liz calls next time, he won’t be as silly as to say – I almost cried when your cup broke, I couldn’t help it.

How mushy. How preposterous.

No, he won’t say anything, he won’t be a burden, he had been for too long. Instead he will ask “how are you?” (meaning you and Matthew) and she will probably reply “17” (meaning brands of tea she can identify now). Liz is on her way to become the MP wife, tea is important - she left her caffeine addiction on this side of the Atlantic. She left a few things here…

Well, it doesn’t matter. Matthew is a wonderful chap, a very nice fellow. He must be worth a million coffee mugs and even one ex-husband.

Three years have passed. Armie isn’t bitter, only melancholy. If he could survive Liz leaving, he can survive some meaningless cup.

He looks reluctantly in the mirror, adjusts gray fedora and leaves. He is one of the few who wears it these days - another of Liz’s ideas that survived her here. Another good one.

The hat covers the hair and sunglasses at all seasons cover the eyes. Nothing much he can do with his size, but a sprinkle of unisex perfume helps in avoiding unnecessary attention. And sometimes, passing by the shop windows, he believes the illusion himself, if only for a second, - in that polished glass he is a tall, young, attractive alpha he was supposed to be, but isn’t.

Don’t trust in advertising.

Images lie, DNA doesn’t.

One gust of wind and the mirage is over – his blonde hair draws attention immediately. Unusual style choice, some probably think, but luckily don’t dwell on it. If only they stayed for a second longer, they would notice bright blue eyes, searching in panic for that precious hat.

Blue.

Blue can mean azure, cerulean, sapphire, turquoise.

Blue eyes, though, mean only one thing – omega.

You can run, but you can’t hide.

Even in New York.

No matter what Liz thought or he believed, even in New York, where you are supposed to get lost in a human ocean, you have to settle down somewhere, to have neighbors, coworkers, casual friends. And so even here surprise, pity or disgust that were a given in their small southern town sometimes reappear and remind that, yes, even in a big city, you can be lonely, but never alone. Forgotten, but not oblivious.

Though there is something to say about big cities – it’s more often pity than anger here. More often: “Oh poor dear, tell me all about it.” “Oh, how unfortunate!”

How, indeed.

Omega trapped in alpha’s body.

Genetics is a lottery - we all play, the House never loses. Life finds a way.

“Trapped” was the word Liz used often. Talking about her own dubious luck of being an alpha girl in a conservative family, talking about the father who’d been low-key desperate about her marriageability since she was 12, talking about the jerks who were happy to prove that a shrew can be tamed if you apply right amount of force.

She never referred it to their marriage. She should have – to blind people everything has to be spelled out, and he used to live with his eyes closed tightly.

She should have said something. He should have opened them sooner.

Who cares now?

“We need to just… just get away, Armie. Just get out of here. Doesn’t matter the place. Just get out of _here_!” she repeated, pacing the carpet in her resplendent girlish bedroom, smoking defiantly, so that her father would catch it, would probably slap her again.

Liz didn’t care.

Liz wanted out.

And they did, eventually, - after she turned 21 and esteemed Papa found a husband he could approve of, with a prospect of significant capital increase for his own business and a firm hand that would finally put his willful daughter in her place.

“We’ll get married!” she cried suddenly, after telling Armie all about the meeting with the potential groom.

“You will?” he asked confused.

“Not I – we. You and I. Of course! Of course! You turn 18 in a month, Armie! This is it. Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically.

During that month Liz was a perfect little girl for her daddy - listened without interrupting, agreed to everything, wore lovely dresses and ladylike make-up, in the meantime secretly pawning all the jewelry he ever gave her.

And the day Armie turned 18, she appeared on his windowsill with a cowboy hat and a celebratory bottle of whiskey. “To your legal independence! Packed everything?”

It wasn’t necessary for Armie to snick out under the cover of night - his mother wouldn’t have stopped him probably, his brother didn’t care in the slightest and his father had been gone and remarried by that time. But it was romantic, it was wild. There was something intoxicatingly young about the whole affair – to run away, to elope with fifteen thousand of Liz’s guilty dollars and lungs full of chilly night air, laughing all the way to the bus station, breathing fully for the first time.

He doesn’t want to remember it all now, but it is one of those days, bright red, carnivorous. Won’t let go.

From the car window he sees the city hall and it all comes back so easily: Liz still in her ridiculous hat and he with a backpack, perfunctory hasty marriage, tiny apartment with a view to a local rehab and a reality of being on your own in a city where absolutely no one gave a damn about you, as long as you paid your bills.

After their small town of empty streets and stifling houses, where people knew what gifts they brought each other twenty years ago, whose cousin got knocked up by whose chauffeur and where gossip worked better than cable TV, it was heaven.

He was stunned, apprehensive, happy.

He was young for the first time.

In two months Liz managed to get a job in a small feminist publication that brought more promises and slogans than money, but was a start. Armie, with no useful diploma and questionable appearance, fared worse – stevedore, night janitor, garbage collector, morgue security and eventually a carpenter apprentice. This last one paid even less than Liz’s fiery proclamations, but he liked it, probably because, mercifully, huddled in a dark workshop, he didn’t have to meet a lot of people on a regular basis. For getting it he grudgingly had to thank his arts and crafts class – the only useful one in his school where omegas were allowed to apply. Otherwise - horticulture, sewing and housekeeping.  

And then Liz’s father arrived. Not that it took him all this time to find them - he was just waiting for Liz to wake up and return by herself, penitent and tamed.

“Why this, princess?” he asked, aghast, looking around their cheap apartment and stopping on Armie. “Why _this_?”

Liz tried to laugh, ended up crying.

It was the first and only time that Armie literally threw someone down the stairs. Omega genes or not, it was still alpha’s body and it could do some damage if directed, which the patriarch obviously wasn’t counting on.

Liz cried some more, then smiled, then laughed and then it was a takeout night. With candles stuck into beer bottles and new year’s lights, bought on out-of-season discount, for illumination.

“We’re invincible, Armie,” Liz proclaimed. “We can do anything!”

So maybe it was then, that day, when he felt so powerful and heroic, that he chose to believe her, closed his eyes for the first time and stopped looking.

Maybe it was then that he started to fall in love with his best friend. Maybe.

Who cares now? Who cares?

In any case, the bliss didn’t last - in August Armie’s heat arrived. First heat for a couple who lived as roommates up to that point. And after that, if he chose blindness, it was a survival instinct more than anything else.

If Armie was asked, what event in his life, what time he would delete if it was possible, he would say those three days in August. Not the countless beatings in school; not the day his mother cried in the doctor’s office, after the promised treatment didn’t work; not the time he overheard his father talking about “that thing” and realized it was about him.

No.

Those three days in August. Revoltingly sweet smell of omega pheromones in the air, rumpled sheets stained with something dark and damning, Liz’s voice from the bathroom telling him calmly, very calmly, that she is fine, she is fine, she will be fine, just a minute, just a minute…

And he hated himself so profoundly, he didn’t know it was possible to hate like this.

His monstrous alpha body, his merciless omega genes.

Two subsequent days it was him in the bathroom – cold showers, ice cubes clinking in full tub, wet towels wrapped tightly around his body to get it under control, to make it listen. This body that sensed an alpha present and went haywire.

He remembers begging her to leave, to send him to some rehab, some asylum, some dryout for omegas, but Liz refused – two days she was in that bathroom with him, bringing more ice, bringing more towels, helping him to the bed when he was worn out, leading him back when another wave came.

He still doesn’t know how she could forgive him.

He still doesn’t know if she did.

Then and later they barely spoke about those days. But she never left.

“I did some reading. Asked around,” Liz said one night, while they were washing dishes. He looked at her beautiful hands, red from cold water, weak stream licking her long pale fingers. “We have until April, right?”

“Liz,” he tried, “it’s out of…”

“No, we’ll figure it out. I thought about it. There is…”

“I will get suppressants.”

“How? They are rarely prescribed, and you are a young married omega.”

“Every city has a black market. In New York…”

“In New York,” she interrupted, “you’ll find buckets of snake oil at every corner. Armie, I read about it – the stuff you can get is dangerous. It’s _too_ dangerous. If it doesn’t fuck up your body for years, it will get you an addiction. You’ll end up jerking off in dark corners until you pass out, with a needle sticking out of your ass. No.”

“There is another option,” he looked at her.

“No. It’s illegal. And we don’t know anyone reliable, so it would be a butcher job in some basement, after which you’ll bleed to death or get sepsis. And I’ll go to prison, as an accomplice.” Liz shook her head, “No, we won’t cut out your womb.”

“I don’t need it!”

“Armie, you need an alpha who will hold you down and fuck you silly two times a year. It’s that simple. And I’m an alpha, but I can’t… you’re just too strong for me…” She looked at him, “We’ll tie you up.”

“What?”

“That’s what you need. One of the girls, she had an affair with an omega. He wasn’t… well, he wasn’t your size, but he was formidable, I understand, she told me they usually did it like that. And it worked.”

“Liz, I’m not sure…”

“It makes sense, Armie. It will satisfy both our basic natural needs.” Her cold fingers gently touched his cheek and she smiled, “We’ll practice. It’s months until April. We’ll manage.”

He couldn’t say no, really. It was a solution, it was harmless and he owed her too much to be picky. And, well, on some level, it did make sense.

By April they got the hang of it and, though few and far between, had a level of intimacy that approached satisfying, or at least safe for both of them. Liz never complained, in her way of thinking it became one more problem that they successfully resolved, and Armie taught himself to look at it the same way.

Still, barely there, barely discernible, like shadows over flowing water, guilt and resentment came and went every August and April.

He was too much, she wasn’t enough.

And so, once again, after crossing half the country and thinking that he was free, he knew he was trapped. And the prison was inescapable. His prison was in his blood.

But she was right, they managed. And little by little, then suddenly and surely he realized that he loved her. Deeply and gently. Loved her humor and her strength, her fierceness and spirit, her loyalty and courage, her incessant kindness to him, her care, her belief.

Her loveliness.

She was so lovely to him, so, so lovely.

He loved listening about the minutiae of her job in the evening, loved rubbing her feet tired after a day in high heels, loved making her hot cocoa on a Saturday morning, that special sort he had to go across town to find, loved bringing her little bouquets of snowdrops because she thought it was most hopeful flower in the world.

And when she looked at him and smiled, he knew that he was content and that for once his damn genes served him right – it was so wonderful to give, so wonderful to make someone a little bit happy.

In these moments he thought – we _are_ invincible, we could go on like this forever, with our quiet life and quiet dreams, lost in a big city, but always there for each other.

He didn’t need anything else.

And then, when he least expected it, it was over. As suddenly and miraculously as she materialized on his windowsill, with her cowboy hat and furious promises, equally suddenly she sprang up and flew away.

Literally.

She had a project in London, across the aisle on the plane sat Matthew Rutherford, and Matthew Rutherford smelled right.

“Oh, Armie,” she called him from Heathrow and he didn’t recognize the voice at first, because he hadn’t heard it for years, not so young and stormy. “Oh, Armie, Armie, Armie! You won’t believe it. You will never believe it. Armie, I met him. I _found_ him!”

“Whom?” he asked.

“My beta. I have a beta! Armie, I can’t describe… It’s… oh, gods, it’s like a little hurricane inside your chest, I’m almost jumping and crying and doing cartwheels right now. In the airport. It’s… Oh, Armie…”

He was at the local market, buying strawberries that she loved, hoping to surprise her on her return. The small basket fell from his hand and they scattered on the pavement. Red, red, red and all of a sudden useless.

“I know you don’t understand. I know… It’s an alpha thing, the smells, but gods… I mean, when it happens to you, you will. You will understand. It’s… It’s like…”

“Like hurricane and cartwheels,” he smiled, because he knew that she was smiling.

“Yes, yes, yes! Like I’m five and someone brings me the queen’s tiara. Like rainbows, like a sun sparkling on the snow. Do you remember how we went to the fields in winter and they were all sparkling like diamonds, and how we ran there and rolled in the snow and the sun was so bright and that snow was all shining. All, all shining. Do you remember?”

“Yes, Liz. Yes.”

“It’s like that. Like rainbow melted in the snow and so much sun. So much sun inside you!”

“Marketing affected your brain,” he managed to joke. “But you’re good with images.”

“Oh, Armie…”

“And he?” Armie asked.

“Oh, that you won’t believe either. He was going to marry, in London…”

She continued, but he stopped listening.

“Was going to marry”.

Yes.

“Was going to.”

Yes.

Yes, he understood.

Why is she calling me, he thought. Why is she telling me all this? and then understood that too – she was calling her best friend, her best friend in the whole world, she thought it was only right to share it with him.

He waited for her return, hoped in vain that it was a fluke, met her at the gates and couldn’t recognize his Liz – she was radiant, she was already miles away from him. He lost before he heard the battle being announced.

She was happy.

That was so unfamiliar. In that moment he knew without a doubt – I’ve been so blind, she’s never been happy with me. She was waiting for this Matthew, for this Mr. Right Smell. Like their escape, like her career, like their intimacy, life was a series of steps for her, a series of problems to be resolved, and he missed the signs that their marriage was one, too, and now it was resolved – she found the guy, she was on the right plane at the right time.

Miracles, they suck.

Especially for people who pay for them.

Their whole story runs in front of his eyes now like pages of a favorite book. Some are worn and well read, some are usually skipped through, because the chapter is sad, but no matter from what place he starts or how often he returns to it – the end doesn’t change.

Read the book again, the lesson stays the same – a princess deserves a prince, not a faithful squire. Not an abnormal omega who rolled with her in the snow and counted age rings on an oak stump.

He looks around the car and finds that no one is paying him any attention. In all seriousness, he can get rid of his ridiculous get-up - it projects more wannabe gangster than a respectable alpha he aimed for. But he is used to it now, it became a second skin and he learned to love predictability and order. After Liz left they were the two things that pulled him from under the incoming tide.

In the world where nothing made sense anymore, numbers still did.

Some people knit. Others take pills. Armie counted.

He counted the books on his shelves (2658 at the time), he counted his music records (179 vinyls, 84 CDs, 4 cassettes), he counted the number of stripes on his favorite jacket (47 back, 23 right sleeve, 26 left), he counted lit up windows in the high-rise across the street every night.

And he counted the cups in the kitchen – 7 white teacups, one was broken a couple of years ago, 1 white mug (his), 1 red (hers).

Well, strike out that red now.

Doesn’t matter. It was an outlier, anyway.

Three years have passed.  

It was just a cup. Just an old useless cup, nothing to fixate on, nothing to miss so much that you almost forget that it’s your stop.

Just a stupid cup.

Bright, bright red.

 

<> 

“Dalmatian salad,” Nick says and looks at his notes again, as if they changed from two minutes ago. “I’m sorry.”

“And the girl is… adamant?” Armie sighs.

“Dead certain.”

Second time in two months, Armie thinks. It can become a trend. Probably it already is, gods help us.

“The light is horrible there, these walls will burn her eyes after a month,” he says, but knows that it’s a waste of time.

Client is always right.

We aim to please.

And when you pay so well, we aim to convince you that your most foolish decision is a stroke of genius.

We are interior designers, we’ll make your house a home.

This is not his voice, that’s his boss Virginia during the briefing. And because she practices what she preaches, she is a successful businesswoman and he is one of her humble employees.

“This face, big boy,” Nick points at him, “this face right here is why I’m working with clients and you’re stuck with your computer models.”

Armie knows what he means, he learned long ago that Nick has no problem with his looks, but today is one of those days… It’s difficult not to read more into it.

“Ok,” he says. “I get it – acid green for the walls, plus, black and white fixtures.”

“Not black and white,” Nick shakes his head. “Dalmatian. To quote – ‘something dangerous’.”

“Oh, it is dangerous. It’s a suicide chamber, this bedroom.”

“She is a nice rich girl, actually.”

“Impossible combination,” Armie grumbles.

“Did you fall off the bed? What’s the matter?”

“I broke the cup,” Armie replies before he can stop himself and Nick frowns. “Ah, forget it. Did they strip it? The apartment?”

“Yeah, all bare, ready for a new face. You’ll go?”

“Yes, in the afternoon. You have the keys?”

“Nope.”

“And why?” Armie asks irritated.

“Because Nicole is the friend of the family or something, and they trust her more.”

“It’s an empty apartment! What are they afraid of? Fuck!”

“Hey,” Nick becomes serious. “Are you alright? I mean…”

“Forget it,” Armie repeats. “Forget it. Sorry. I’ll call her. It’s fine.”

It’s not. Nothing is fine today.

Now he has to run around after Nicole chasing the keys. It’s small bother, but today it inevitably becomes more.

“She recommended you, you know?” Nick smiles. “Nicole.”

“Yes,” Armie glances through his mail and decides that there is nothing critical. “She liked the atrium I did for the Swansons.”

The thing about Nick is that he isn’t a brainless bimbo, though he sometimes looks like one, especially when it suits him. But he isn’t, really. When they were first introduced Armie was afraid that he would prove to be one of those annoying people who constantly told you to get laid, thinking it’s a solution to your problem or its cause. It was a great relief that it wasn’t the case.

Nick was one of the few people who didn’t drown Armie in pity over Liz’s leaving. Though, he did try to fix him with one of his wife’s friends at some point. The attempt was unsuccessful, but Armie felt the good will behind it and let it go. Thankfully, Nick stopped at that one time.

“Ok,” Armie looks again at the notes Nick gave him. “I’ll do several preliminary sketches today, then I’ll find Nicole and will go there myself. That Brazilian boutique issued a new light collection two weeks ago. There are several very interesting items there. They can soften even all this Dalmatian carnage, I think.”

“And I,” Nick stands up, “will visit that duplex we got last week and find out what they want. It’s two omegas, get ready for some pink.” He smirks.

“Not all omegas are into pink,” Armie frowns.

“No, but I doubt very much that these two will be into gray.”

“Get out,” Armie chuckles. “And they don’t know what they lose.” He mumbles to Nick’s back.

They don’t.

Gray can be beautiful. Gray can be anything.

Armie returns to his computer screen.

 

<> 

Nicole is awfully sorry when she opens the door.

She is awfully sorry she made him travel all the way here, but it couldn’t be avoided – she woke up with a cold and had to stay home. So Armie, who is awfully sorry, too, for invading her private space, nevertheless asked to come and pick up the keys, because the sooner he finishes this project the better.

Nicole, cold or not, is impeccable as always with her soft smile, light make-up and casual but elegant clothing. She is rather petite and Armie feels even bigger and more awkward than usual in her presence.

“Please, come in,” she invites him. “I’m really sorry to drag you all the way here. And in this weather.”

Armie takes off his fedora and doesn’t know where to put it, so Nicole takes it from him and smiles again.

They met several times and he likes her a lot. Still, he can’t help asking himself – how she sees him. As a charity case? With pity? Does politeness cover condescension?

He suspects it’s unfair to her, but he does it constantly, with every new person in his life. Even business acquaintances.

“I just made tea. Let’s go to the living room,” she says and Armie has to follow her, though he’d rather be done and gone. It’s only the keys. He wasn’t planning on a conversation.

“You have a beautiful home,” he says dutifully.

“Thank you,” Nicole smiles. “Just ignore the curtains. That’s from my mother-in-law.”

…which is of course an invitation to look at them.

Armie chuckles, but automatically starts thinking. The thing is hideous, but…

He crosses the room and touches the fabric, “Bleach it.”

Nicole looks at him surprised.

“Yes, bleach it, then twist them like a rope and dry. When you iron it later, the slight wrinkles will stay and it will look like a different fabric entirely. When asked, say it’s puckered Portuguese cotton.”

“Portuguese?”

“People are easily impressed,” Armie smiles.

“Does it even exist?”

“No, but you’ll be believed anyway.”

“Do you do it often?” Nicole asks from the kitchen.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… They were a gift, the curtains… It’s…”

“No, no, no. It’s a wonderful advice. I’ll try it,” she returns with a tray and puts it on a coffee table. “Please, sit.”

“I really… Thank you,” Armie sits reluctantly.

“Did you start on Michele’s apartment?” Nicole pours and gives him a cup.

“Michele? Oh, the Marstons. Yes, well, I tried several ideas, but I wanted to see the space again. Especially in the evening light. So…”

“Of course.”

The cup seems like a child’s toy in his huge hand, and, as always, he is afraid he’ll break it or spill the liquid all over the carpet. And to tell that he hates tea would be equally moronic, he knows.

But he hates the stuff. Especially since Liz married a brit. Which is neither here nor there.

“It’s very nice,” Armie says politely, intuiting that he’ll have to finish this whole cup to get the keys.

Suck it up, buttercup.

In his line of work friendly realtor is more important than a friendly dentist, so, yes, he drinks. Ex-wife or not.

“Cookies?”

“No, no, thank you.”

Armie looks resignedly in the cup, then at the curtains, remembers the last sketch he made before coming here. It will probably work, if the floors are…

“What do you think…” Nicole starts and then is interrupted by the doorbell. She frowns. “Oh, it must be my son. He called just before you… It will only take a minute,” she apologizes and goes to open the door.

Thank fuck, Armie thinks, at least small talk is over.

A moment later something very overdressed steps through the door, and with fascination Armie watches the mystery unravelling quickly – under the heavy hood, there is a beanie, under the beanie - a shock of mad curls, under the scarf covering him up to his eyes – a young boy, bushy eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, wrinkling his nose and then promptly kissing Nicole on the cheek.

The heir apparent is adorable, if you like them messy and disheveled.

Someone else probably would, but Armie distrusts kids of _any_ kind since his own childhood, and next development only proves his point – the boy carelessly places his enormous messenger bag right on top of Armie’s hat, left on the table by the door. Armie closes his eyes.

Polite, be polite, he reminds himself.

“Timo…”

“I know, I know… It will only take a second…” the boy rushes inside and then stops abruptly when he notices Armie standing there with the cup.

Young alpha, Armie realizes. Junior high at best.

“Timmy, this is Armand Hammer,” Nicole comes after him. “Armie, this is my…” she stops, because the boy just stares openly and doesn’t have the decency even to feign nonchalance.

No matter how often Armie has to deal with such reactions, they always hurt a bit. Nothing fatal, just a slap. Still…

And here is why Nick is dealing with clients and Armie does the drawing - because too often people simply don’t know how to react with grace, then realize what they’ve done, feel horrible, feel upset and it’s suddenly up to you to reassure them that it’s alright, it’s fine, totally understandable, no problem.

Of course with children it’s even worse. Though this kid is at least 14, should know better by now.

Armie looks at the cup in his hands, then glances at Nicole and notices angry blush flowering on her cheeks.

“Timothée,” she says sharply.

The boy just frowns and then inhales deeply, two sharp alpha canines peaking from his still slightly open mouth.

“I believe you were going to give me the keys, Nicole,” Armie says calmly.

He knows she won’t make a scene in front of strangers, but after the door is closed the boy will certainly get a solid dose of parental advice, judging by Nicole’s eyes.

“Armie, I… Please go to your room, Tim,” she turns again to her son. “Timothée!” she repeats, when there is no immediate reaction.

The boy looks slightly puzzled, as if the words are difficult to understand, but eventually starts moving, looking back several times, before he disappears down the hall.

“Armie…” Nicole looks mortified, “I don’t…”

“Nicole, the tea was wonderful, and I’m sorry I have to leave so soon.”

She doesn’t offer any apologies, her manners won’t let her acknowledge this embarrassing faux pas. And he doesn’t humiliate her with false unnecessary smile.

Yes, the kid is in for some tongue-lashing, Armie thinks again, but doesn’t feel any real satisfaction.

Not fatal, just a slap. But even slaps hurt a little.

At the door he has to extricate his poor squashed hat from under the boy’s bag, which not only looks huge, but weighs a ton too.

All this education – all for nothing.

Should have sent him to a boarding school. With corporal punishment.

Nicole looks at the poor hat and her blush intensifies.

“It’s quite alright,” Armie says and almost chokes on his own words.

Thank you, Matthew Rutherford, - taking my wife wasn’t enough, you had to leave me your atrocious britishness, too.

“I… It was very nice seeing you, Armie. I hope… I hope the apartment… Good luck with the project,” Nicole finishes lamely.

“Yes, yes,” Armie nods and can’t get away fast enough. “Thank you again.” 

On the street biting February wind slaps him again for good measure and he has to grab his hat tightly not to lose it. 

This day is decidedly one of those days. Everything is wrong. Everything is out of shape and broken. And now he has to go to that empty sad apartment and start thinking in acid green and Dalmatian.

Thank gods, dreams are black and white.

Soothingly gray when you remember them.  



	2. Chapter 2

Dalmatian bedroom is a huge waste of time and brain cells, Armie understands quickly, but it can’t be avoided. The girl, sweet Michele, flew to Europe and they are exchanging emails now, the last of which informs Armie that there’re not enough African motives.

He reads it several times, trying to figure out the meaning of this enigmatic pronouncement, and then it dawns on him, his heart even skips a beat – the chick doesn’t know the difference between a dalmatian and a zebra. Holy hell.

Or worse, she knows it, but couldn’t express her wishes clearly to Nick during their meeting and now is too embarrassed to correct herself.

Hence, African motives.

What African motives?

After an hour of internet browsing and appealing to the ceiling for some inspiration, Armie finally finds a giant poster with two native warriors on it, slaps it on his model and sends a snap to her. The picture has nothing to do with Africa or danger (another theme with this girl), it’s a photo from an Australian aboriginal wedding, but spears, tattoos and nose rings are present. To the western eye, it must be enough. It has to be.

Then comes a call from the warehouse, where they apparently dropped a box with a huge crystal chandelier and the thing is now “a bit crooked”, but “like no biggie”.

How did they even manage it? Armie asks himself. The stuff is shipped in boxes layered with a ton of cushioning. From what height did they drop it?

Anyway he doesn’t have the will to go there today to assess the damage. It gets dark early in February and he feels tired, as if it’s 9 pm, though it’s only around 5.

Luckily Gina is out, so he decides to call it a day. He’ll deal with it all tomorrow – chandeliers, zebras, his boss.

In the lobby on his way out he stops dead.   

Though it’s been two weeks and he doesn’t want to recognize him, he does. Immediately. The sheer bizarreness of the vision makes it inevitable. February is the coldest month, yes, but people somehow survive with less layers.

Puffy parka, heavy furred hood, woolen scarf to the eyes. And there was a beanie there, Armie remembers.

The bag he recognizes too. His hat still feels its weight, he is sure.

The kid.

Nicole’s spawn.

Sorry, Nicole, you are wonderful and knowing you has been very profitable, but, what do you know, nature does relax on the heirs.

The guy is standing in the lobby of his building, carefully studying the list of the companies situated here. 

Armie quickly decides to just pass him and go on his way. In another circumstances he would be sure that the kid didn’t remember him, but given his looks he doubts it. So he just tries to avoid the unnecessary unpleasantness.

Armie walks quickly and almost gets to the door, but then…

“Wait, wait, please!”

And somehow he knows that it’s for him.

Somehow he just does.

He turns back reluctantly and looks at the boy, now without his hood. The scarf is lowered too.

What is his name? Armie tries to remember.

Tommy?

Tony?

Hell, why bother?

“Yes?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s… I think it’s important.”

“What about?”

Again in another circumstances and with another person, Armie would try to be more polite, but there is something about this guy that just grates on his nerves.

“Can we go somewhere? Like private?” the boy asks meanwhile.

What?

“What is it?”

“I… it’s…”

“Wait, did something happen to Nicole?” Armie asks, suddenly concerned.

Though, why would the guy come to him? He and Nicole are casual acquaintances at best.

“No, no,” the boy shakes his head. “Mom is fine. Nervous, but… but fine.”

Now, that is a strange answer, if you think about it. But then, it’s one strange kid, for sure.

Armie looks at him worrying his beanie in his hands. He looks nervous, he thinks. Why would he?

Oh, I see…

“Is it some school project?” he asks.

“School? No. Look, I really think we should… it would be…”

“Well, you look too young for internship,” Armie shrugs. “So…”

This makes the boy frown and bite his lip. And Armie, to his surprise, sees a shadow of pain crossing his face.

He notices these things, because he knows where to look, he saw enough of such shadows in the mirror. He notices them on the faces of overweight women ordering a cupcake in café or on modest guys who try to flirt with a gorgeous waitress and cringe at the banality of their own jokes. And so he notices it here, too, but prefers not to dwell on it.

“I’m not… How old do you think I am?” the boy asks quietly.

Armie honestly doesn’t give a damn, and he is missing his usual train, which makes him slightly anxious, as does everything unpredictable and out of order.

“Look, Tom…”

“Tim.”

“Ok, Timothy…”

“Timothée”

“What?”

“It’s different. You pronounce it wrong.” And then he spells helpfully.

“Listen, Flender…”

“I’m not a Flender,” Tim interrupts again. “That’s only mom.”

“Then what are you?”

“Chalamet,” the boy smiles. “With a silent T at the end.”

No, Armie won’t bother. Whatever. Though he adds another item to his ever growing list of “things to avoid at all costs” – people with a silent T.

At all costs. Like asbestos.

“Well, _Tim_ , maybe we’ll get to the point finally? How about that?”

Tim nods. “Do you remember when we met? At my mom’s?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure… I’m still not sure. I have a… It’s winter and I often have colds in winter, so runny nose and all that. I don’t like cold…” he shrugs.

Yeah, I noticed, Armie looks again at the parka and scarf and hood.

“And what? You came for a medical advice?”

“No, no… I need to… Can we… It will sound weird, I know… Why don’t we go somewhere private?”

“Did you want to apologize? Is it about that?”

“Apologize? For what?” the guy seems genuinely surprised.

Right.

Courtesy died a couple of generations ago, Hammer, stop searching for it in this century.

“So what the hell do you want?” Armie asks exasperated.

The kid looks him straight in the eyes and without a shadow of sarcasm pronounces, “I think I’m your alpha.”

First of all Armie feels anger, then surprise, then incredulity, then pain. He is old enough to know that people, and children especially, are often pointlessly cruel, but it nevertheless amazes him every time.

Why do it?

Why wound so carelessly?

Why do you forget so easily that this other person, however strange and insignificant to you, he has feelings too?

Your alpha.

Does this kid think he hasn’t been through high school, too? Does he think it’s very original?

Well, Armie heard worse, and it was dealt more artfully.

“Is it a bet?” he asks tiredly. “Or just for shits and giggles?” He turns around and looks through the glass wall separating the lobby from the street. “Is there someone with a camera out there? Viral video of the week?”

“I don’t understand…” Tim frowns.

“I don’t understand it either, to be honest. I really don’t,” he sighs and turns around to leave.

“Hey, wait, please wait!”

“No,” Armie turns back sharply. “Look at me and please believe me when I tell you that I never want to see you here again. Ever. I have no idea what it was you had in mind or what you wanted to achieve, but… You embarrass your mother and she doesn’t deserve it.”

He leaves without turning back once and fortunately the guy doesn’t follow.

 

<> 

It’s snowing heavily. That wet unpleasant type of snow when every snowflake is like a little projectile smashing into your face and exploding with water.

Armie looks at the whiteness and shifts his hat, preparing for a quick sprint to the station. He’ll get wet, of course, but it can’t be avoided.

To his displeasure he notices someone with a huge umbrella standing not far from the entrance. And for some reason people with umbrellas in winter irritate him to no end.

Read the damn word.

From Latin, from shade. Meant to protect you from rain or sun. Do you see any sun here, genius?

How about _parapluie_ , _paraguas_? Still no clue?

Then this umbrella lifts a little… and, oh, hell.

Fucking hell.

The kid.

Almost buried under all this snow, his damn umbrella all white and he himself looks like a damn mushroom, but there. No matter how much you blink – he is still there.

And Armie realizes that he had enough of this bullshit. To hell with Nicole and every potential project he might lose, to hell with patience and playing nice.

Armie strolls decisively to the kid, and the guy, damn his guts, lowers the erstwhile scarf and has the balls to smile. As if he is happy, as if it’s a happy occurrence here.

You miserable mushroom.

“What the fuck do you want?” Armie asks loudly, not giving a damn about the attention he might get and that he usually tries to avoid at all costs.

“Hello, Armie,” the kid smiles sunnily.

“Mr. Hammer. I’m Armie to my friends, and you are… you are a fucking nuisance, that’s what you are.”

“Bad day?” Tim asks

“Now – one of the worst!” Armie replies angrily, wiping the snow from his face.

“Can you hold it, please? For a second?” the kid hands the umbrella to him.

“What?”

“For a second.”

It’s not curiosity, it’s politeness that kills felines. If you are born with it, you’re done in. A guy whom you dislike gives you an umbrella and asks nicely and you just can’t say no. A creep asks for directions and you come up, and you wake up hogtied in the back of a van in the middle of nowhere.

Politeness.

Armie takes the umbrella, and the boy smiles gratefully.

And then without any preamble, without a warning or anything he just lunges. Armie can’t describe it any other way – one second he was standing there peacefully and now he is hanging on Armie’s shoulders, holding for dear life and… digging.

Armie doesn’t know what shocks him most, the speed, the unexpectedness or the weirdness of it all, but when he feels a cold nose perusing his neck, he knows he won’t stand for it.

But how do you even brush him off, with the umbrella in one hand and a suitcase in the other?

“Get the hell off me!” Armie sneers. “I mean it. I’ll call the police. Get the…”

Tim finally resurfaces, though doesn’t let go entirely, still gripping Armie’s shoulders.

“You are mine. You are really mine!” he smiles widely, his voice full of wonder and giddiness. “Really!”

Fuck the umbrella.

Armie tosses it away and hopes it will roll into the traffic – nice hunting, kid, the buses are fast here, hope you’ll catch one.

He pushes Tim away and the boy lets him, but keeps smiling idiotically.

“No!” Armie yells, when he sees him taking a step closer. Tim frowns, then notices Armie’s empty hand and starts looking  around.

And what do you think? The useless umbrella did roll into traffic and is right now being crushed by a huge SUV, which makes Armie smile for the first time since this encounter started.

Tim sighs, but then looks back at him and his eyes narrow. “It was a gift,” he grumbles.

“Good,” Armie replies. “And one more thing – I see you within five blocks from here, I’ll get a restraining order.”

“They don’t cover mating,” Tim folds his hands across his chest and looks smug.

“There is no mating here, so we are fine.”

“There will be.”

“Goodbye,” Armie turns around and starts walking away.

“Please, don’t be difficult. I realize that it’s sudden…”

Armie turns and sees the kid by his side, matching him step for step.

736 steps to the station. He doesn’t have this much patience.

Maybe he should run? Undignified, he thinks, but you can’t be choosy in such circumstances.

Then he thinks about the ice and imagines slipping and falling and breaking his fucking leg. As if this, right here, isn’t enough.

And what is worse, the kid will be still there. Will probably fight his way into an ambulance with him, too. He looks like the type.

Why do I attract weirdos? Is it pot meet kettle or something? Like that strange guy from the corner near the hair salon that always bows every time I pass?

Why?

But then – a miracle. A goddamn miracle. Unexpected, but well deserved by this point.

Armie spots a taxi stopping at the curb. Of course, he notices another guy who sees it, too, and by the looks of him is ready to launch.

Oh, no. No! I don’t care. You think we omegas are all fluffy bunnies, do you? Think again. I’ll rip your fucking throat for this cab, mister.

Tim, of course, is still there and still talking, but Armie stopped listening at the word ‘mating’, and now when the salvation is at hand, there is no reason to pay attention anymore.

Armie sprints to the taxi, not caring about the ice, and collides with the other guy at the door. A woman emerges from the car, looking angrily at them both and swearing softly under her nose, because they barely let her step on the sidewalk.

The guy is saying something.

Noise, all meaningless noise.

“Fuck off!” Armie hears suddenly very clearly and sees Tim flashing his fangs to the guy. “Touch him and I’ll fuck you in the face!”

“Eat shit and die!” the guy, dressed like a college professor, screams hysterically back.

“Yeah, yeah…” Tim nods and gives him the finger.

New York, it has its charms. Whatever you say.

“Hey, wait!” Tim grabs the door that Armie was trying to close behind him, using that lovely interlude as distraction.

“Leave me alone!” he looks furiously at Tim.

“You think it’s over? It’s not over!” Tim screams, when Armie manages to pry his hands off the door.

“I’ll call your mother!” Armie promises from the window.

“Be my guest!”

“Drive!” Armie yells to the cabman.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. But fast.”

 

<> 

His dreams are disturbing for the next three days. He can’t remember anything like that before – he’s never had this problem.

He sees a Dalmatian dog running through an emerald meadow, and then the dog jumps, transforming into a zebra in midflight. A beautiful graceful one, but with a curly mane for some reason. Suddenly the beast turns and looking straight at him says clearly: “I’ll fuck you in the face.”

Armie almost levitates from the bed in fright, cold sweat covering his forehead.

I have to cut back on coffee, he thinks. Maybe some valerian root for the nerves.

This winter seems interminable and more oppressive than ever. If it wasn’t for April, he would start counting the days until the spring.

Yes, some valerian root and calm music. Something relaxing.

“You look tired,” Nick says sympathetically the next day.

“I am. A bit,” Armie sighs.

They are in his office. Gina dropped in to hear about the latest project and, hearing Nick’s words, she looks at Armie too.

“You ok?” she asks.

“I’m fine. Absolutely. A bit under the weather, that’s all.”

“We all are,” she nods and picks up a small gilded bell, one of the clients gave Nick as a souvenir and that ended up on Armie’s shelving.

“So,” Nick opens his folder. “The duplex. I’m happy to report that there is nothing surprising there,” he scans the page briefly. “Apart from the carp pond.”

“Carp pond?” Armie frowns.

“Yep. In the middle of the lounge.”

“So it’s marble?” Gina asks, the bell tinkling gently in her hand. “Carroso had a shipping recently.”

“I’ll call him,” Armie nods.

“Actually, I made several sketches while I was there,” Nick hands them to Armie who is leaning on the table in front of him.

“It’s incredible,” Armie says sounding stunned.

“Well, thanks,” Nick looks at him surprised and finds that Armie doesn’t look at the drawings, but straight ahead. Nick follows his gaze and through a glass partition, separating this working space from the rest of the studio, sees a guy in a heavy furred hood, standing by the conference table they use for occasional collective brainstorming.

“Who is that?” he asks.

“Nicole’s son,” Armie mumbles.

“Nicole?” Gina looks at the guy too. “Mazzanti?”

“No,” Nick frowns and looks at Armie questioningly. “I think, Flender. From Northern Star.”

“Oh,” Gina glances again. “I don’t see any resemblance, frankly.”

“There is none,” Armie says firmly. “He is a demon child.”

“What is he doing here?” Gina asks. “Something happened to Nicole?”

“Yes,” Armie nods. “She gave birth to a monster.”

Nick and Gina exchange glances. “I don’t follow…” his boss says.

“Yeah,” Nick looks at Tim again. “What? You know him?”

“I don’t,” Armie shakes his head. “I don’t want to. I swear.”

At that moment Tim finally stops wandering around and turns to them, zeroing in on Armie immediately.

Armie sees his approach the way some ancient civilization probably saw barbarian hordes moving toward the gates of their pristine beloved cities. With dread and heavy premonition.

“Hello,” Tim steps in, his eyes never leaving Armie’s face.

“Yes?” Gina asks him gently, probably fooled by sweet innocent looks some children possess.

Armie can’t believe that she falls for it.

“I… well, I wanted to talk to… _Mr. Hammer._ ”

They all think Tim blushes, but Armie knows better. His cheeks are probably red from the cold, especially if you look in the eyes. And the eyes are positively smirking.

Mr. Hammer.

You bastard.

“Oh, Mr. Hammer,” Gina coos. “Well, he is all yours. We were done here anyway. Ok, boys,” she looks from Nick to Armie, “if there is anything new, I’m in my office. I hope you’ll feel better, Mr. Hamm…”

There is a growl.

Sudden, distinct and damn threatening.

Gina’s hand freezes inches from Armie’s shoulder.

It’s difficult to say who is stunned most here.

“Gods and all the saints,” Gina recovers first. She shakes her head, then looks at Tim and suddenly becomes serious. “Married – not a threat,” she points to a piece of jewelry adorning her ear, a golden piece hugging the auricle, that couples usually wear.

Then she looks at Nick who finally manages to close his mouth. “Um… yeah, same…” he points to a similar piece on his ear, only silver. “Not a… not a threat. At all.”

And as if ordered they take a step away from Armie.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Tim nods and probably blushes for real this time. “It’s just… it’s all very new, you know?” he looks at Gina.

“Oh, honey, I understand. I understand perfectly. I’m Gina,” she stretches her hand to Tim and smiles.

“Timothée”

“Like that car racer?” Nick chimes in.

“Yes,” Tim beams proudly.

“Now wait a goddamn second,” Armie, who was staring at all this in mute horror, finally wakes up. “What the hell is happening here?”

“Santi,” Gina looks at Nick. “Out!”

Nick seems unsure and turns back to Armie. “I…”

“Santi,” Gina’s own fangs suddenly appear.

“Well, yeah, yeah… We were… just leaving. Just…” he glances at Tim. “Very busy today.”

“Doing what?” Armie demands.

“Oh, well, reading… about carps. Yeah,” Nick nods. “Bloody hell, Patricia will never believe it…”

And he is still muttering something when Gina practically drags him away and firmly closes the door behind them.  

Armie stares at Tim who looks around curiously, smiling when he sees the shelving full of books and color scales hanged on the walls.

“That’s it,” Armie declares. “I’m calling the cops. Enough,” and he circles his desk aiming for the phone.

Tim just folds his hands across his chest and doesn’t seem particularly concerned.

“911. What’s your emergency?” sunny voice greets Armie with inappropriate cheerfulness.

My emergency?

An adolescent maniac with no manners and a lot of determination.

My emergency is that my life is hell, suddenly and inexplicably. And I don’t deserve it. I did nothing to deserve it.

My emergency is this guy with a silent T and loud growl.

Call National Guard, lady.

Fuck.

Armie slowly hangs up the receiver.

“What the hell do you want?” he asks with despair.

“You. What else?” Tim smiles warmly.


	3. Chapter 3

Armie straightens his back, gets to his full height, frowns, narrows his eyes, cocks his head, flares his nostrils for good measure.

Nothing works.

The kid is unmovable, still there, still looking at him and waiting.

“Alright,” Armie huffs, “let’s end with this nonsense once and for all.” Then he notices some curious looks through the glass. It’s a small place, people notice things. “Let’s go somewhere - I don’t like flaunting my private life in front of strangers.”

Tim nods. “No, I don’t want you flaunting, either.”

Armie just ignores it – to argue with crazy people is a waste of time. So he takes his coat and faithful hat and leads the way out.

“You should dress better,” Tim says, following him.

“You think?”

“Yes, this hat is unsuitable in this weather. You can get sick.”

“I’m healthy as a horse. I’ve never even had a cold,” he glances at the boy, “unlike some people.”

“I love my body and I take care of it,” Tim says solemnly, ignoring the barb.

“Good for you,” Armie grumbles.

They reach the elevators. The doors open and several people get in.

“No, we’ll take the stairs,” Tim suddenly grabs his arm.

Armie looks from the hand to the face to the open elevator.

“What, you’re claustrophobic too?”

“No,” Tim shakes his head, “there are three alphas there and only one is wearing a couple-ring. Small elevator – too close for comfort.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m not ridiculous!” Tim’s eyes are flashing angrily. “You have no idea what it’s like! I’ve read all about it, they describe it as a mix of PTSD and paranoia. And it is. It is! You’re still not over the shock of finding him, when you start fearing that someone takes him away from you.” He sighs, “It’s very exhausting - I have trouble sleeping, I have sweats, my pulse is erratic. Just this morning I found a giant pimple on my…”

“Fuck, alright,” Armie interrupts, “we’ll take the stairs.”

The elevator is gone by now anyway, so he marches towards the fire escape door and is ready to run down, when…

“Stop!” Tim grabs his arm again.

“What?” If he could growl, Armie would right now.

“I should go first,” Tim explains patiently. “In case you stumble and fall, I’ll cushion you with my body. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do.”

“In case I stumble and fall, I’ll smear you all over this staircase!” Armie looks at him incredulously.

“I’ll take the risk,” Tim replies and fearlessly goes first.

Armie thought about taking him to Margaritas, but it’s across the street, and at this rate they will never make it. No, better El Piace, just around the corner. Paranoia permitting, they might get there relatively unscathed.

They do. Though Tim immediately lifts his hood as soon as they leave the building.

Doesn’t like the cold, this one.

Move to Florida then. Spare us both.

When Tim opens the restaurant door for him, Armie just walks right in. Hints don’t work, aggression doesn’t, maybe an honest conversation will do it, and they are here for this. He can’t wait to get it over with, so, yes, he walks right in without a comment.

An honest conversation, yes, but in the furthest and darkest corner, where acquaintances won’t recognize him, if someone happens to come in. It’s not quite lunch hour, but someone might. And it’s enough that his office is aware now. He needs to isolate the contagion and minimize the damage.

So he unswervingly marches to the furthest corner. No need to turn around – Tim follows, Tim is there.

They reach the booth, and Armie looks around contentedly – no one close enough and no one familiar. Good and good.

He takes off his coat, carefully folds it over the back of the seat, then glances at Tim and stops. And stares. Mesmerized.

The layers don’t stop with parka and scarf and gloves and beanie, underneath there is a jacket, under the jacket a V-neck sweater, under the sweater a shirt.

And on a sweater, as a centerpiece, there is a deer head. Staring right at you with its eyes slightly askew and horns begging for symmetry in vain.

Homemade, Armie decides. No doubt. Lots of love, not much skill.

He never liked amateurs.

Can’t knit a deer? Don’t knit a deer. Buy it. It’s not a Ferrari, for fuck’s sake, you can afford it.

Tim glances at him and obviously misunderstands his look, because he says, “Yes, not much to look at.” And waves at himself.

Armie didn’t even consider it, but he looks again – yes, nothing much, literally. Tim is small.

You might say petite, you might think tiny.

Especially compared to him.

“It’s fine. I mean, you’re young, you’re growing.” He sits down.

Tim frowns. “Ok, right,” he sits and stares at the table for several seconds. “Let’s get this out of the way first – I’m not growing. That’s all there is or ever will be. Of course, I might get fat at some point… but somehow, with an omega like you, I really doubt it.” He looks up, “Armie, I’m 24.”

Now Armie really stares and knows that he is staring and can’t stop it.

“You can’t be 24…” he says finally.

Tim sighs, then goes for his messenger bag, takes out an ID and puts it on the table in front of Armie.

“I…” Armie looks at the card, sees the dates. The thing looks genuine. “Well, you are… you are not short. I mean… You are just… petite.”

_Tiny._

“I’m 5’11”. One inch to an alpha, our doctor used to say,” Tim says calmly.

“I’m sorry…” Armie mumbles and cringes immediately, remembering being the recipient of these pointless and humiliating sorries. He judged people for being obtuse, and look at him now…

“Don’t be. It’s not important. It was at 16, but now… What can you do? Wear heels? No!” Then Tim smiles, “And anyway, the inches that are important to you are there, so don’t fret.”

“None of your inches are important to me!” Armie says angrily and buries his nascent sympathy.

Fuck sympathy. Waste of good will.

“You haven’t seen the whole package,” Tim winks. “I can send you picks.”

“Please don’t.”

“Well, fine, anticipation is everything, I guess. But while we are at it – I need your phone number. Mom refused to give it to me - she is old-fashioned that way, personal introductions and all.”

“You don’t need my number. We won’t have to meet again after today.”

“No,” Tim sighs, “I won’t get fat with you, that’s for sure. Just running in circles will provide all the exercise.”

Armie glances again at the deer, in one of its eyes that was lucky enough to get above the table. Ok, he decides, talk to the deer head. Maybe the results will be better.

“Look, Tim, I’m starting to believe that something indeed happened to you. I mean, concerning me. But it will pass. It’s only physical and you need to… You need… Ok, true, I never researched these things, never had much interest, but you should’ve realized by now, that it’s only a fluke, some glitch in the system… It will pass… I promise.”

He looks up, expecting to find sadness or embarrassment or even regret, and instead finds the look kind professors usually reserve for their hopeless, but still beloved students.

“It’s alright, it’s natural,” Tim takes his hand. “You are scared. You should be.”

“I’m not bloody scared,” Armie pulls away his hand, “I’m trying to be reasonable here!”

Nope, no sadness, no embarrassment. Tim just stands up and goes to his side of the booth and sits next to him.

“What are you doing?” Armie whispers for some reason and looks around.

Tim, it seems, has no problem with how it will look to someone who might turn and see them like that, squeezed together on one seat, but Armie thinks about nothing else.

Nothing else, until he feels Tim’s hand landing on his thigh and squeezing affectionately.

Armie is so surprised that he can’t even move for a second. Forget about the fact that no one has touched him so intimately in the last three years, more important is that he has never been grabbed by anyone in his life, period. Especially in public.

“What the hell are you doing?” he whispers furiously, still shocked to the point of paralysis.

“You need to get accustomed to my touch,” Tim says and then starts stroking him like a cat. “I read about it.”

“Stop! Stop it!” Armie finally recovers and tries to pull Tim’s hand away.

“Gentlemen,” he hears and finds Diego, standing by their table and looking curiously at the proceedings. “You ready to order?”

No, Armie wants to shout, I know what it looks like – the furthest booth, the darkest corner, our hands in the vicinity of my crotch, but it’s not… it’s not…

Diego, I’ve been coming here for the last four years, you know better, you…

Desperately he looks at Tim for some help and sees that Tim… Tim doesn’t give a fuck. At all. About Diego, propriety or anything else.

Maybe I can scribble a hostage note on a napkin, Armie thinks. Snick it to Diego. Maybe someone will come.

Thinking that it will improve the picture a bit, he puts his hands on the table, catching himself in time so as not to fold them like a student, and tries to assume a nonchalant look, that probably resembles more that knitted deer, than anything remotely respectable.

“Coffee,” Armie manages, “black.”

Just stop moving your hand, Tim, just keep it still, please.

“Chocolate,” Tim says, glancing quickly at Diego and sniffing the air, “hot.”

Diego doesn’t suggest any dessert, just smirks and leaves, and the second his back is turned, Armie grabs Tim’s hand and pulls it from under the table.

“Touch me again and I am leaving. I’m serious. You hear me?”

“Ok, ok,” Tim rolls his eyes, “but it’s true - you need to get accustomed to my touch and my smell. This way the mating won’t be so stressful.”

“Don’t talk like this - I’m not an animal!”

“In what sense?”

“In what sense???” Armie looks at him incredulously.

“Well, humans are part of animal kingdom,” Tim shrugs. “But if you mean that you’re gentle and loving… Well, you are supposed to be, you’re an omega. I read…”

“Stop it. The stuff you are reading, stop reading it.”

“It’s very enlightening, I can lend it to you,” Tim suddenly bends over the table, searching for his messenger bag on the opposite seat.

Armie glances at the ass, suddenly materialized right in front of him, on the table, then quickly moves to salt and pepper.

At the ass, at the pepper, at the ass, at the pepper, at the…

Tim folds back.

Armie stares straight ahead.

He is right, I _am_ an animal, he thinks, I’m as base as they come.

Then he notices a huge volume, glances at the cover, catches the word “mating” and prefers not to read more. Pepper it is. Safe.

“You can kill with this thing,” he says fearfully. Though it’s not the size that makes his insides clench, but the amount of sticky notes, protruding from the book.

“Knowledge is power,” Tim proclaims. “And it helped me overcome my hesitance in returning to you.”

Ah, so it’s this rubbish that’s responsible for all this, Armie realizes and looks at the book again. He wants to say something about the usefulness of book-burning, but here Diego returns. And to Armie’s eyes, he is still smirking.

“Thank you,” Armie says politely.

“Enjoy, Armie,” Diego winks and sets their cups on the table.

“How do you know him?” Tim asks immediately, this time paying more attention to the guy.

“How do you think? He is a waiter here, I work in the next building. Connect the dots.” Then, searching for a distraction, he points to Tim’s bag, where several books of similar size are visible. “And these are all about…”

“Mating?” Tim still looks suspicious. “No, the rest are work related.”

“What are you? A librarian?”

“Not only librarians read books, Armie,” Tim looks at him again with that special kindness smart people never have to witness. “I’m an accountant.”

Huh?

Of all the…

But wait a minute, my alpha is…

“An accountant?” Armie exclaims with obvious indignation.

“Yes,” Tim glances at him surprised, “it’s a steady, respectable job. Health insurance, life insurance, good retirement plan, transportation subsidies. Government work has its perks,” he nods. “So, in case you doubted, I can provide for you. I’m not rich and it won’t be a jetset life, but you’ll never go hungry.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved…”

“Yes, relief I will provide too. Part of the plan.” Then Tim is solemn, “I’ll take care of you, you’ll never have to worry about anything again. If you want to stop working, I won’t be opposed.”

“If you stop hallucinating, I won’t be opposed either,” Armie huffs.

“Yes,” Tim sighs, “mom said that you’ll probably want to keep working…”

“Hell, you talked about all this with your mother?”

“Of course, our family is very close, we share. Dad is away right now, but we talked on the phone,” he pauses to drink some chocolate. “I didn’t want to alert distant relatives at this stage, but they will be excited too.”

It’s this last “too” that scares the living daylights out of Armie.

I’m in deep, he thinks. I didn’t know what was brewing. It’s not only him - somewhere there are people whom I never met and, frankly, never wanted to, and they are all _excited,_ or will be.

The problem has metastasized.

“Please, don’t alert anyone,” he says carefully. “I think the alarm is… premature,”

“Oh,” Tim puts down his cup and looks at him, “if you only knew what I want to do to you, right here on this table, you’d know it’s _very_ mature. It’s downright NC-17, with additional trigger warnings.

“Do you know how you smell to me?” he leans closer and Armie instinctively pulls away. “Right now - like lavender, because you’re scared and don’t want to attract attention, so it’s all – don’t eat me, don’t eat me.” Tim smiles, and fangs are there, big fangs.

“But the first time,” his voice goes lower, “when I saw you at my mom’s, even though my nose wasn’t the best, still it was like a rare steak. Raw and tender and soft on the inside. And mine.” He puts his hand on the back of the seat and effectively traps Armie.

“And I will teach you everything,” the hand grips the back of his neck suddenly, and Armie grabs the table, trying not to arch his back reflexively. “Everything - my smell, my touch, my shape. Then I won’t be an alpha – I will be the Alpha. And yours.”

“You need to… to…” Armie whispers, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I need to go. My lunch break ended twenty minutes ago, and I don’t like being unpunctual,” Tim says, still only a breath away from his face. “Are you punctual, Armie?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good,” Tim whispers, quickly kissing the tip of his nose, and gets up.

“No, wait, we need to…” Armie is staring at him.

“Don’t worry,” Tim smiles. “I’ll be back.”

“No, you can’t just… we haven’t…”

“You sure you don’t want the book?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure, but…”

“It has a chapter on separation anxiety.”

“I don’t want the damn book! You can’t just…”

Tim looks around, thinking. “Hm, I didn’t bring anything with me…”

Then he picks up his parka and pulls out the scarf stuffed in one of the sleeves. Armie sees him folding it in two and starts shaking his head, because he guesses where it’s going.

“Don’t make a scene,” Tim smiles. “I know you’re the person who doesn’t like scenes,” and then he wraps the scarf around Armie’s neck, threading the ends through a loop and making a knot.

“Here. Be warm and think of me.” Tim winks, “Get accustomed.” And with that he zips up, picks up his bag and leaves. Just like that.

Armie is still staring uncomprehendingly at the entrance door, when Diego comes up with the bill.

He looks at Diego, then again at the door, then touches the scarf, dark green wool, cozily wrapped around his neck, and for some reason, for some damn reason mumbles, “But he doesn’t like the cold…”

 

<> 

He is still wearing that green scarf when he returns to the office. It smells of an alpha, so Armie wrinkles his nose periodically, but stoically ignores it.

On entering his working space he immediately takes it off and throws on the top level of his shelving. Out of sight, out of mind.

“What do you want?” he grumbles, seeing Nick and Gina by the door.

“Well, I mean…” Nick tries, “We don’t want to pry, but…”

“Spill,” Gina doesn’t bother. “He is your friend, I am your boss – talk.”

“There is nothing to tell. And I am not obligated to discuss my private life at work,” Armie replies primly.

“Well, the fact that you now have one tells me a lot,” Gina sits in one of the chairs in front of his desk and gets comfortable.

“Do you like him?” Nick follows her hesitantly.

“Of course not!” Armie rolls his eyes. “He is… irritating. And it’s just a passing thing, he’ll come down.”

“He is an alpha, Armie…” Nick frowns.

“Yes,” Gina nods, “and a cute one. On the smallish side, but you know, short men can surprise you.” She looks wistful, “My second husband was short. Never a dull moment.”

“He cheated on you with a hairdresser,” Armie remarks spitefully. “I don’t need this type of entertainment.”

Gina’s eyes narrow. “Well, judging by his looks, your alpha hasn’t seen a hairdresser in ages, so relax.”

“He is not my alpha!” Armie exclaims.

“He sounded like one…” Nick looks at him

“Forget it,” Gina scoffs, “he won’t go away. If it’s chemical, he won’t. He might be rubbing one off, thinking about your sweet derriere, right now.”

“He is at work right now,” Armie mumbles.

“Never stopped anyone before. Do you realize why glass partitions became so popular?” Gina raises her brow. “Stage fright kills erection.”

“I don’t want to discuss it anymore,” Armie glances at the computer screen, hoping they will get the hint.

“Erection?” his boss smirks. “I have news for you – with a horny alpha on your tail, you won’t have much else to discuss for about a year.” Then she looks at Nick, “But you said Northern Star, right? They are big these days. That’s good news.”

“I can’t believe it!” Armie stares at her. “You see my misery as business opportunity?”

“Every smart person sees misery as business opportunity,” she nods sagely. “Look what they make on disaster relief every year.”

“Well, I have a disaster on my hands. Where are all the charities?”

“Is he so bad?” Nick looks at him with sympathy. “I mean, he looked fine…”

“He _looks_ insane and he _is_ insane. He is plotting our whole life together already. I didn’t even bother to interrupt. And there is the family too, there somewhere,” he shudders. “I start to understand why Nicole is a Flender – doesn’t want to be confused with this bunch.”

“So what will you do?” Nick looks at him.

“I’ll wait it out. Like with any disaster – sit tight and it will blow over. Sooner or later,” Armie nods to himself.

“Tell it to folks from Pompeii,” Gina suggests sweetly. “Look how it worked for them.”

 

<> 

The foolproof plan starts showing cracks at noon the next day.

“For Mr. Hammer,” the guy dressed as a courier says from the door to Armie’s work space.

“Nick, sign for me?” Armie glances at the package and dismisses it immediately. Some documents or blueprints, happens every day.

“What is it?” he asks, not moving his eyes from the screen. The carp pond goes swimmingly.

“Um, I think it’s a gift,” Nick sounds unsure. “There is a card.”

Armie takes a small envelope that was attached to the package and finds the following message:

                           sweets

                               +

                    food for thought

Signed YA, and there is a phone number on the other side.

“It’s a box of chocolates,” Nick informs him.

YA? Armie thinks. Young adult? He glances at the box in Nick’s hands.

Well, the level of sophistication is certainly appropriate.

Box of chocolates. What a cliché!

Then he gets it and his temperature rises.

YA – your alpha.

The nerve!

5’11”, but the nerve!

“Take it to the kitchen. Guys will love it,” Armie scowls and returns to the carp pond, deciding to make it big enough to drown in. Given the current state of the world, the clients are bound to consider the option at some point.

“Underwear too?” he hears.

“What underwear?!”

“Well, there is…” Nick looks at the box again.

“He stuffed his _underwear_ into a box of chocolates?” Armie asks, shocked.

“Hm, no, it was in a separate pack,” Nick shows him a small transparent plastic bag with something dark inside. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s washed. Looks that way.”

“Now what is this? What is all this?” Armie looks around and doesn’t know to whom the question is even addressed – Nick or some deity who out of boredom decided to concentrate on Armie these days.

“It’s a dick pic, 1950s version or earlier.” Nick shrugs, “He must be old-fashioned. Though I don’t understand why all this trouble, could just use the phone.”

“I didn’t give him my number. You crazy?”

“Ah, then I understand…”

“What do you understand?” Armie explodes. “I’m 34 and strangers send me their underwear! _What_ do you understand?”

“What does your age have to do with it?” Nick frowns.

“There is a point in life” Armie straightens his back, “after which you expect certain amount of respect from people. You deserve it. You think I don’t?”

“Deserve respect?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t think he meant it to be disrespectful, more a…” Nick sighs. “Look, Trish sends me nudes from time to time, it’s not a big deal.”

“She is your wife!” Then, “Wait, why would _your wife_ send you nudes?”

“Who else would?”

Armie thinks for a second. “Yes, that’s true,” he says finally. You can’t argue with this logic.

Nevertheless, the card ends up in the wastebasket, and the chocolates are exiled to the kitchen.

It turns out, guys indeed love it.

 

<> 

The next day another package arrives. A bigger one.

Armie looks for a long moment, but eventually signs for it.

This note says: “Please, take care of yourself. I worry. YA.” And the phone number.

Inside there is an ushanka hat, gray rabbit fur, authentic by the feel of it.

Armie looks at it in his hands, flap ears and all, and has no idea what to do with it. He won’t wear it of course, no need to encourage the madness, but if Nick saw it, you can’t even regift it. Damn.

He wants to remake me in his own image, Armie realizes. Next it will be deer sweaters and cough syrups.

Ha, dream on!

But he can’t throw it away either, so the hat follows the scarf to the top of the shelving.

Armie glances at them from time to time and even gets up once to move them further away from view.

Out of sight…

“I’m happy for you, Armie,” Youngmi tells him shyly when he pops into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. “It’s very lucky to find your true alpha,” she smiles.

He likes Youngmi a lot. Responsible, honest and thoughtful, she was hastily hired as a “smart move” when Japanese started acquiring New York real estate en masse, only to be busted later as a Korean to Gina’s eternal embarrassment (“No one has ever fooled me like this! She’ll go far, that girl.”).

Well, at least in this Gina was right, and Armie admires Youngmi’s meticulousness and sense of space, as well as the fact that she is the only person in their office who is usually even quieter than him.

Lucky, though? My “alpha” is an accountant with PTSD and paranoia, Youngmi, he wants to say, but then remembers what much he knows of fucked-up Korean history and reconsiders, who knows what they consider being lucky. Probably, another day without genocide or invasion.

And then there is the fact that you simply can’t get mad at her, even Gina can’t quite manage it. The girl is the sweetest thing, and impeccably polite, though not a Japanese.

So, yes, you can’t get mad at her.

Damn.

“Thank you,” he says at last, and Youngmi smiles again.

 

<> 

Thursday comes and goes without any couriers visiting and Armie starts relaxing. Valerian root he bought the other day helps, too.

Then on Friday - a bouquet of lavender. With a bonus vase.

Everyone notices.

Armie sees smiles.

Attention hurts.

Valerian is useless.

The guy who delivers it explains that their service includes arranging it for a client, so he goes to the kitchen, fills the vase and brings the bouquet back to Armie.

The note this time contains only a phone number, fortunately, but Armie still throws it away immediately and then looks at the flowers.

Brazen, vivacious, indigo.

Where did he even find lavender in February? Armie wonders.

“Well,” Nick says stopping by the door, “now that’s romantic.”

“It’s harassment. No means no. Can’t he get it?” He looks at Nick, “And I don’t smell like lavender! Do I smell like lavender? How do I smell?”

“Um, fine… you smell fine…” Nick frowns.

“Smell me,” Armie gets up swiftly.

“What? Armie…”

Now, why is Nick backing away suddenly? Why is he looking like it’s not a perfectly reasonable request?

“Come here! Smell me!” Armie demands.

“Look, I don’t want trouble…”

“What trouble? Smell me.”

Nick looks around several times, then hesitantly comes in and approaches Armie as enthusiastically as he would a leper. He leans closer and sniffs quickly, then immediately pulls away.

“And?”

“Fine, you smell fine.”

“What do you mean fine?”

“What do you want from me?” Nick exclaims. “I’m a beta, you smell like any other omega to me.”

“Smell again.”

Nicks does.

“So?”

“Still an omega,” Nick sighs, “plus that duck we had for lunch.”

“You see? You see?” Armie cries triumphantly. “Duck! Duck isn’t a steak! Steak is beef!”

“Can be fish, too,” Nick looks at him hesitantly.

“And if it walks like a duck and… and smells like a duck,” Armie continues, ignoring him, “then I’m right and he is crazy!”

“What’s going on here now?” Gina asks, appearing suddenly at the door.

“Steak can be fish, right?” Nick asks her.

“Can be an eggplant now - fucking vegans.” Then she notices the bouquet, “Oh, so it’s flowers stage. Sweet.”

“There is no stage!” Armie cries again. “I don’t smell like a steak! Smell me!”

Something unfamiliar and terrifying flickers in Gina’s eyes, something like compassion towards an employee. “You know, it’s Friday, you can leave early, Armie. I believe this weather finally got to you.”

“And I?” Nick asks hopefully.

“And you can do overtime,” Gina replies, “and thanks.”

He is winning, Armie thinks. The kid… fuck, you can’t even call him “kid” now, but he is winning. For Gina to send you home early both your grandmothers have to die and your apartment catch fire in one day.

He is winning.

Fuck valerian roots and all its blossoms.

And fuck lavender, too, while we are at it.

 

<> 

He is not even surprised when he sees that familiar hood in the lobby.

He didn’t go home early. The last thing he needs is to get behind on his work because of all this nonsense. Plus, he doesn’t like Friday evenings – without Liz they seem longer than the rest.

“What are you doing here?”

“Snowstorm was announced, so I’ll take you home. I worry.”

“Out of the question,” Armie says firmly.

“Armie, do you think I can’t get your address, if I want to?”

Armie looks outside – it snows heavily again, but there is wind too. The picture doesn’t look inviting.

“I don’t need you to escort me home. I’m not a child.”

“You didn’t like the hat?” Tim looks at his fedora and seems indeed worried. “They promised it’s the warmest there is. And it’s real rabbit, which is… well, I’m sorry for that rabbit, but you’re more important.”

“Please don’t send me any more gifts, Tim.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been saving for a car, but I don’t need a car, really,” Tim shrugs. “Or do you want one?”

“Please don’t send me any more gifts,” Armie repeats, deciding to ignore the crazy talk.

“Alright, let’s go. While it’s still relatively quiet,” Tim nods and walks away, just like that. Armie stares at his back, wants to say something again, but eventually has nothing else to do, but follow him.

On the train there is no usual commotion, people seem gloomy and subdued, everyone tries to get home and to warmth as soon as possible. The storm is howling outside, making even this shabby car feel like a blessed shelter.

Tim is mostly quiet, too, only growling from time to time when someone gets too close. But it sounds rather peaceful, more an advice, than a warning.

Armie looks around and sees several alphas, tall and bulky, a few taller than him, their partners wrapped securely in their arms, nuzzling their necks, finding comfort in familiar smell.

He glances at Tim, peeking at him from his hood like an owl from a tree hollow, and Tim sniffs and blinks, owlishly.

How ridiculous, Armie thinks.

How ridiculous even to consider.

When they get off at Armie’s station, it’s like waking up at the bottom of a bowl of milk that someone forgot in the freezer. Everything is white, but everything is cold, too.

Armie immediately grabs his hat, knowing that he’ll never find it, if it flew away now, and Tim in his turn firmly grasps his arm.

“Wha…” Armie tries to cry over the howling snow.

“Studded soles,” Tim cries back and grips him tighter.

Each step takes an effort you would need if you were walking underwater, deep underwater. There is a point when Armie realizes that he stopped feeling his ears probably a dozen steps back, and his cheeks are burning. Tim is there, his hood completely closed off like a shell, but his grip never slackens.

Each step is a small achievement.

Each step is an effort.

They go.

Once Armie slips and Tim supports him with surprising strength. The white wall they are pushing against seems tougher than concrete and occasional lit windows appear as random islands of warmth amid the white darkness, looking more inviting than ever.

By the time they reach his building, Armie has forgotten all the color scales he’s ever learned. There is only white. Endless, all-erasing white.

He flexes his fingers in the lobby, but wouldn’t believe they are still there, if he didn’t see the movement.

Tim’s shell opens slightly and he peeks out, white face, white by now hood, dark glistening eyes.

“You’ll be ok?” he asks quietly.

“I can manage three flights of stairs on my own, yes.”

“Don’t open the windows tonight.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Armie replies tiredly.

“No,” Tim says solemnly, “mom says you’re very smart and I’m lucky. She also says I need to give you some time – to digest. And mom is a chick, they know this stuff.” He sniffs, “So I’ll give you a week. That’s fair. Anaconda can digest an alligator in two weeks, so I think one in your case is more than enough.

“Though, personally, I don’t understand it. You’re mine – what’s to digest here?” he looks at Armie and frowns. “But, well, mom is a chick, as I said, so, yes, a week.”

He nods to himself, then looks at Armie again, “Behave.”

And then, just like that, he turns around and steps outside, the white swallowing him immediately.

Armie, who was listening to all this with his mouth slightly open, ready to interrupt, blinks several times, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t all a vision, that a second ago there was Tim here.

The storm is howling ferociously, and he shivers.

“Thank you,” he whispers to an empty lobby. “Thank you… for taking me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU!   
> Your unwavering enthusiasm and kindness mean... they really mean more than I can express.


	4. Chapter 4

For the next week Armie digests, as ordered.

The process doesn’t go smoothly. First, there are occasional winks and smiles from coworkers, because everyone, everyone, everyone knows now. And there are comments, and there are congratulations, and there is well wishing. And it’s all a bit more than he is comfortable with.

Then there is Nick, who is so often on the verge of saying something, but eventually reconsidering, that Armie starts to suspect that, when the dam breaks, advice will flood the terrain.

Once he was careless enough to get drunk with Nick, and it quickly turned into a two-hour discussion of his recent at the time divorce. Armie still cringes from that mental colonoscopy.

And then, then there are anacondas.

Armie can’t even remember how and why he stumbled upon it… Well, in all honesty, he didn’t, he searched and the net provided the answer - a 20-minute video of an absolutely unimaginable horror where a scaly hose with lifeless eyes swallows inch by torturous inch an alligator. Without blinking or any visible distress. Sort of casually.

Alligator, on the other hand, is distressed enough for both of them.

Armie sympathizes. Oh, how he does.

He watches all 20 minutes of it, mesmerized and petrified, and immediately sends 50 bucks to Alligator Conservation Fund. Thinks some more and adds another 50, because these poor bastards need all the support they can get.

But it doesn’t end there. Responding to silent need, the site helpfully suggests him another videos he “might be interested in”. And there is a gallery of atrocities there – gazelles torn apart by lions, killer whales biting chunks off of seals. Then some monstrosity rises from the deep and swallows a whole shark.

Just like that.

A shark! And what did they ever do to anyone to be treated this way?

Meanwhile, from the top of the shelving the rabbit, now in the form of a hat, stares mournfully at him. Another poor bastard who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Another victim of Tim’s unholy lust.

By Wednesday all this is enough for Armie to commit to vegetarianism. He never thought he’d stoop this low, but you live and learn, you live and learn… He draws a line at veganism, though, because cheese is sacred, and if there is anything that can help him in these times of trial it’s Pinot Noir and some brie. Last bastions of sanity and order.

But, yes, it’s vegetarianism from now on. Nick frowns at the procession of salads that follows this resolution, but still refrains from commenting. Smart move.

By Friday, tired of seeing Tim in every corner and under every desk, Armie calms down. If you look at the situation rationally, there is no reason to overreact. By now, the guy must have come to his senses too. Young people are fickle in their affections. If no one feeds him any steak, he might forget about Armie’s existence entirely.

This is what occupies Armie’s mind while he cleans his apartment from top to bottom on the weekend. Tim and his diet.

Put him on broccoli for a month, and you might get one pretty sane accountant by the end of it.

Or maybe it’s the opposite? Maybe he is so starved for meat, that he jumps at anything remotely close.

Poor dear.

Then, because he vacuumed his whole apartment twice already, but there are still at least 4 light hours to kill, he goes to the kitchen and starts wiping the cupboards he never uses anyway. And he is still thinking.

What he is thinking is who is to blame for all this? He goes back over all the events that led to that fateful meeting and finds the culprit to his satisfaction.

Nick.

Nick couldn’t be bothered to get the keys from Nicole, and so Armie had to go and fall into this trap.

Maybe if Tim saw Nick first, his married colleague would be the one obsessing over the videos of animal carnage now? And receiving lavender bouquets, with bonus vases?

The lavender faded, by the way.

One small mercy.

Armie wipes the shelves and wishes once again that Tim’s infatuation will fade with it.

 

<> 

Next Tuesday Armie’s resolution about vegetables weakens a bit, and he orders Caesar salad as a compromise with conscience. In his defense, Monday came and went and nothing happened – no Tim, no calls, no lavender, no more savaged rabbits. Zilch.

Nevertheless, Nick looks at his plate and sighs.

“What?” Armie frowns

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Are you on a diet suddenly?” Nick looks at Armie’s lettuce, then back at his own chicken, lovingly.

“Sort of,” Armie grumbles.

“Love is brutal.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Nick starts, then pauses, then, “Oh, come on, you’re fine. No reason to put yourself through… this,” his fork points to Armie’s plate. “The guy is into you as it is.”

Armie just knew it. He just knew. The dam is showing cracks.

“This has nothing to do with _him_. Well, it does, but not in…” He stabs the lettuce viciously, “Don’t be ridiculous. I love salads!”

Nick watches him valiantly eating that sorry leaf and shakes his head again. But Armie knows, he just knows that Nick is ripe for some soul-searching and advice-giving.

Get in trouble – and people will come. Sometimes to help, always to talk about it.

People, they are so human. Their worst characteristic.

That’s why Armie knows and isn’t surprised, when Nick says carefully:

“So, no presents last week…”

“No.”

“And he didn’t come by…”

“No.”

“Did he call?”

“Nope.”

“And that’s why you are pissed?”

“I’m not!” Armie crunches a crouton loudly. “I’m content, actually. The strategy is working. I told you – sit tight and it’ll blow over.” He nods, “It did.”

“What did you do?” Nick sighs

“Nothing. I guess he thought it over and saw reason.”

“That’s bad.”

“That’s being mature. I’m happy for him.”

“And I’m sad for you,” Nick looks at him, and he does seem sad inexplicably.

“Why in the world?”

“I thought… honestly, I thought it was a good thing, what happened.”

“Because I’m a pathetic single omega who should be grateful for the first opportunity presented?” Armie asks angrily.

“No, because he seemed head over heels with you.”

Right, Nick is a romantic. Good guy, but a romantic.

“He isn’t in love with me, Nick,” Armie sighs. “He is not anything. His brain got a whiff of some combination of chemicals and went into overdrive. It’s not real. If it wasn’t for my scent, he would have passed me on the street and never looked twice. Stop making some fairytale out of a primitive basic fact.”

“No, I don’t argue that it’s based on physicality, but… you two could make something more out of it,” Nick glances at him briefly and then adds quietly, “Liz did.”

Armie looks up, but it’s obvious that Nick tries to avoid his eyes.

Liz. Liz was a low blow, Armie thinks. Why do we have to drag her into all this?

“You know how I met Trish?” Nick asks suddenly.

“At some party, right?”

“Yes, right. But the fact is that I didn’t see _her_ first. Not the face, at least. What I saw was these gorgeous boobs, just mouthwatering,” Nick smiles dreamily, and Armie stops chewing his lettuce and stares at him.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s true,” Nick laughs. “I still remember that silver tank top. My future grandchildren should mention it in their prayers. It was a godsend.”

“Charming…”

“The point is not whether it’s charming or not, the point is that I saw the boobs and I crossed the room.” Nick pauses and now looks at him, “Armie, I understand that you want it to be otherwise, but, honestly, no one crosses the room for a personality. _No one_. You have no idea about personality at that point. It always starts from a nice butt or lush lips, or some such. In your case it was the scent, but…” he shrugs.

“Nick, I’m fine alone. I got used to it. I wasn’t planning on all this…” Armie tries to explain, but finds that besides “fine” and “alone” he doesn’t have much to say.

“Well, he wasn’t planning either, I guess. Look, Armie, what I’m trying to say really, is that I’m happy for you. Seriously. And not because you’re some sad desperate case and should jump at first opportunity, but because I think that it could be a good thing, you and Tim.” A slight pause, then, “You deserve good things too, man,” Nick says quietly.

Armie looks at him and tries to find pity, but Nick is honest. Maybe it’s his romanticism talking, but he truly believes his own words.  

“Thank you…” Armie replies after a moment and desperately wishes for this conversation to end here.

“But you are a wonder,” Nick doesn’t give up, “you and Liz. These true mates, it’s so rare and look – in your case it’s struck twice.”

“I feel struck alright,” Armie huffs. “Hairs on end and smoke wafting in the air,” he crunches another crouton.

Nick laughs.

“Still, must be great to know that someone goes apeshit just to get your attention.”

“No, but this is the thing,” Armie shakes his head, “I never _in my life_ thought that anyone would ever go apeshit or any other way over me!”

“Armie,” Nick smiles, “give him a chance.”

Armie stabs another lettuce leaf and doesn’t say anything.

“Do you think he is a bad person?” Nick continues.

“Tim?”

“Duh!”

“Well, I barely know the guy,” Armie shrugs.

“But you must have some impression…”

His impression? Armie glances at the street behind the window and sees snow, and remembers _snow_ , and remembers Tim, and his hand holding him firmly, and his sure steps, and his _I worry…_

“No, I don’t think he is a bad person,” he says finally.

“Then give him a chance,” Nick smiles again. “Even if it doesn’t work out, one more good person in your life is a… It’s a good thing. No?”

 

<> 

When they return, the office is unusually quiet.

“Someone fucked up…” Armie frowns.

“Yeah,” Nick mumbles, “but why are they looking at _us_?”

And it’s true. Everyone stops for a second and just stares at the two of them. Armie turns to Gina’s office and sees her talking on the phone, but when she notices him, she stops momentarily and her dark eyes become darker.

“Damn, it’s the chandelier,” Armie whispers, still looking at her.

“What chandelier?” Nick follows his gaze.

“For that penthouse on Madison that we finished before New Year. Remember, they wanted this chandelier for the library?”

“And?”

“And it’s fucked. Beyond recognition.” Armie keeps whispering. “Warehouse guys.”

“Then I’m out of here,” Nick says cheerfully and turns around to leave.

“Nick!”

“I love you, man, I really do. I’ll be back,” Nick promises and practically runs to the elevator, that conveniently arrives just in time.

Armie considers this desertion and vows to remember it – Nick’s birthday is in June. Yes, he can keep a grudge until June.

He’ll regift him that rabbit hat. In June.

I love you too, man.

Thanks for nothing.

Then he glances again at Gina who is still on the phone, but continues sending daggers at him with her eyes. Fucking chandelier. Well, there is nothing to be done now, so he sighs and goes to his own work space, knowing from experience, that Gina won’t keep him in suspense for long.

Gina never loses a chance to wipe the floor with someone stupid enough to lose her money.

So the floors in this place are sparkling. You can eat from them, and some people are occasionally tempted to, if it spares them the beating.

He has just sat down and opened his laptop, when she arrives. Armie looks at her brows, good indicator of things to come, and sees them pointing down, forming a sharp V.

Bad sign. Bad, bad sign.

Damn Nick, fucking chandelier…

“Ok, I’m sorry,” Armie starts, before she can accuse him of dodging, “I should have told you and I forgot. But the thing is… it’s not so bad. Well, it is, but it’s recoverable. I found a place. They can straighten the metal and patch up the…”

Gina’s brows deepen even more. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” she says, “but tell me all about it later, so that I can whip you for that, too.”

Too?

“Ok, what is it then?” he sighs.

“Armie, let’s start with some philosophy. You like this stuff, right?” Gina cocks her head. “Well, here is a simple, but profound question for you. Ready? Aha. Do you like it when other people’s problems become yours suddenly?”

“Um, no…” Armie says and suddenly wants that chandelier back, fucked or not. Chandelier wouldn’t have put Gina in philosophical mood.

“Me either, me either…” Gina nods thoughtfully, then groans, “Fuck, I should have fired you long ago. The second you got divorced. The very second!”

She looks at him, and anger and pain cross her face. Pain is flattering in this context, but anger…

“Um, thank you,” Armie mumbles, “that’s just what I needed at the time – to get fired to boot…”

“It’s always the same story, always the same fucking story,” Gina sighs and looks at him again. “Do you know what happened to Wine Me?”

“The wine boutique? I don’t…”

“You happened!” she cries with a ferocity so unexpected that Armie jumps from shock.

“I?” he stares at Gina. “I’ve been there once probably…”

“You! They hired a girl on reception! On reception, mind you! And do you know what that fool did?”

“I don’t…”

“She went to Norway for holidays!” Gina continues without listening to him. “To _Norway_ in _December_ , as if there is not enough snow in fucking Montana! But no, little Jessica here went to Norway and brought back a souvenir - a 7-feet Viking! 7’5”, if you count the horned hat!”

“I still…”

“Now picture this beast standing there, on reception, and growling at every schmuck who was in the mood for some Chablis that day!” Gina stares at him unblinkingly. “They lost half the customers in one week. Were on the verge of bankruptcy in three. That’s what one omega can do to a business!” she points at him.

“Gina, I’ve never been to Norway…” Armie says and, because panic makes people act crazy, smiles.

“Fuck Norway!” Gina explodes, seeing his unfortunate smile. “Norway isn’t the problem here, the problem is that your love escapades brought half the US government on my ass! The worst half!”

“Sorry, _what_?”

“Don’t play dumb, Armie!”

“I honestly…”

“Your Tim Chardonnay, your little bombshell of an alpha, he was here today!”

“He is not Cha… He _was_?”

“How come I didn’t know who he is?” Gina demands. “I would have fired you immediately, if I had _any_ idea!”

“He is Nico…”

“Armie!” she growls.

“I don’t understand, Gina! Who he is… He is just an accountant! What about it?”

“An accountant?!” his boss looks at him in disbelief.

“Yes!”

“No, you are beyond hope. How did you survive with this naiveté level in your bloodstream? And how did I hire you with that condition? Gods, gods, gods…” Gina exhales loudly, takes her time and comes back with a vengeance. “An accountant? An accountant, Armie??? He is worse than an accountant! He is worse than diarrhea on honeymoon! He is a bloody _auditor_! He works for the IRS!”

“Oh…”

“Oh?” Gina cries. “Oh – is not the sound I want to hear! Leave it for your alpha!”

“Yes, I mean… What do you…”

“Fix it!” she yells. “Make it go away!”

“Fix it? I don’t know anything about taxes…”

Gina grabs the little gilded bell from the shelving and suddenly throws it in his direction. It collides with the wall and starts ringing merrily.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Gina cries again. “This has nothing to do with taxes! It’s about you!”

“About me? Did he say…”

“He didn’t have to! We conversed about private enterprise, tenacity of American spirit, your illustrious career here, all that bullshit. And you know what I saw in those velvety doe eyes – give him to me, _give him to me_ or we’ll love you so deeply, you and your enterprise, you’ll bleed until next Christmas!”

“This is insane…”

“Fix it!” Gina says again.

“What do you want from me?”

“Whatever _he_ wants from you!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Armie stares at her.

“I shudder to imagine!” Gina wipes the sweat from her forehead and indeed shudders. “Never fucked an auditor – must be a riot…”

“You can’t be serious right now!”

“Yes, I am,” Gina nods. “One of us is getting it, Armie, and it won’t be me. I swear.”

“I won’t do it and you can’t make me! I have my limits!”

“Tell _him_ about your limits!”

“Fuck, I quit then!” Armie yells. “Better?”

“Over my dead body you quit!” Gina explodes again. “Can you imagine what he’ll do to me if he thinks I fired you?”

“Gina, you can’t do that…”

“Armie, I’ve had four husbands – whenever a man tells me, _Gina, you can’t do that…_ You watch, honey.” Then she softens unexpectedly, “Armie, you’re a good man. You have that idiotic altruistic bent, I know, so… take one for the team. Close your eyes and think of England, if necessary, but take it!”

“I don’t want to think of England! I _hate_ England!”

“Armie, if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be some carpenter from Queens,” Gina folds her hands across her chest, “up to your ears in stinking bassinets and rotten chairs. You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you _that much._ ”

“We are talking about your ass here, not some UNESCO treasure!” she exclaims.

“Well, I value it more than Taj Mahal,” Armie replies and stands, mirroring her posture. “It’s personal.”

“It’s selfish! It’s cruel! You are cruel!” Gina points at him. “You seduce him, drive him nuts, but we all have to suffer now?! You’re like that _bimbo_ from Troy! That _floozy_ that fucked it up for everyone!”

“I didn’t seduce him! I didn’t do anything!”

“Armie, for the last time, fix it. Fix it or you are doing lobbies and public restrooms for the rest of your stay with us. I promise.” Then she smiles sweetly, “And if you’re still thinking about quitting, forget it, - no person with a brain will touch you; with the resume citing IRS agent as your top achievement, you’ll be blacklisted from here to Hawaii. I promise that, too. So fucking fix it!”

And then she turns around and storms out, slamming that poor glass door so hard, that it continues trembling from shock for about three minutes following her departure. And Armie stares at it and he is trembling too, only from rage.

They are both still pretty agitated, he and the door, when he marches towards it, opens it and shouts with the amount of decibels never heard from him in this building or anywhere else probably:

“WHERE IS LAST WEEK’S TRASH?”

In the resulting silence muted sounds from the street become more pronounced – car signals, someone’s laughter, music from the store on the corner.

Everyone is suddenly very occupied, very busy.

“Incinerated, probably,” a quiet voice to the right of him says finally. “They take it out every night.”

He follows the sound and finds Samantha, their HR manager, looking at him with genuine concern.

Fuck my life! That’s just what I needed, he thinks, to have a meltdown in front of HR manager. Cherry on top.

“Thank you, Samantha,” he replies, trying to sound as sane as possible, and even adjusts his tie. “You’re very kind.” He nods and swallows. “Very kind. Yes.” He closes the door quietly and returns to his desk.

Fuck my…

Nicole! Nicole must have his number. Mothers usually do.

And if she threw it in the trash, too?

No, mother’s love is unconditional. Whatever the child’s condition…  

“Nicole, hello,” he tries to get his voice under control. “I hope I don’t call at inopportune time…”

“Of course not, sweetheart. What is it?”

_Sweetheart?_

“I need his number. I’m afraid…” Armie takes a deep breath, “I’m afraid, it’s urgent.”

“What did he do?” Nicole asks immediately.

“It’s complicated.” _Let’s leave it at that._

“Oh, I see…”

Do you, _sweetheart_?

“Armie, I don’t know what it is, but… his heart is in the right place.” Then she thinks some more and adds, “Usually.”

I don’t give a damn about the heart, but his nuts are mine. So unfair, that you can’t say that to a mother.

“Of course, Nicole,” Armie replies instead. “He is a… good boy.”

“It’s really bad then?” Nicole sighs.

“Lovers’ tiff.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You know, me and Marc, we also argued a lot at first.”

“Love is brutal…”

“What?”

“Oh, just thinking aloud. Can you send me his number, please?”

“Armie, please…”

“It’ll be fine, Nicole. He is safe.”

 

<> 

From the shelving to the opposite wall, from the shelving to the wall. But the wall is not a wall, it’s glass and behind this glass sits Claudia and glances at him occasionally.

Armie paces, paces, paces.

He needs to calm down.

He needs to.

He can’t.

He paces, paces, paces, the cloud of rage dissipating slowly.

Claudia catches his eyes and smiles a bit shakily.

Gods, he thinks, did I shout that my ass is worth more than Taj Mahal?

I couldn’t!

_I_ couldn’t.

Yes, yes, I _did_.

Sorry, Claudia…

Then he looks around – that wall is glass, too, - and there are other people, and they look back.

Sorry, people.

He turns to the shelving and there are that scarf, dark green, and that rabbit hat, dove gray, sitting on top and fucking smirking, - and this, this just can’t be endured.

It shouldn’t.

I’ve been working here for eight years, these people, these wonderful, creative, lovely people know me. They respect me.

Well, they did until today…

One more good person in your life, Nick said… Look, what one more good person in your life can reduce it to!

Good person… He is fucking done, this good person, Armie promises and finally dials the number Nicole sent to him.

Good per…

“What do you want, you lunatic?” Armie starts without ceremony, only belatedly realizing that he doesn’t know who picked up the phone.

“You tell me, you’re calling,” comes irritatingly calm reply.

And, yes, sounds like Chardonnay alright. Familiar maddening vintage.

“What do I want? I want to drown you in the Hudson!”

“Assaulting a federal employee is a federal crime. Up to 20 years, if I die.”

“Then I hope you can’t swim,” Armie confesses, “because twenty years in solitude sound like paradise right now.”

“You seem upset. What happened?”

“What happened? You know what happened. You came to my office again!”

“Yes, I wanted to see you,” Tim says still calmly. “I gave you a week, I even added the weekend, and deadline was Monday. I can’t wait forever.”

“Forever? It’s _Tuesday_!”

“Tuesday isn’t Monday.”

Bureaucrat is a bureaucrat, Armie thinks. The guy found his vocation.

“And you couldn’t simply call me?” he inquires.

“You refused to give me your number.”

“So, of course, you threatened my boss! Logical!”

“We talked, yes.”

“You’re a piece of work, you are… What the hell do you want?”

“First, don’t insult your alpha, and second - a date.”

“A date?” Armie looks at the phone in amazement. “You threatened Gina to get a date???”

“I didn’t threaten anyone. Threats are abstractions, and in my profession abstractions get people in trouble,” now Tim sounds annoyed. “So I didn’t threaten, I was very straightforward – I said, don’t fuck with Armie, because if you fuck with Armie, you fuck with me, and you don’t want to fuck with me, beca…”

“Tim, only the mob talks like that,” Armie interrupts.

“Then they don’t like abstractions either.”

“No, they are pretty straightforward…” Armie agrees. “They _love_ concrete.”

“But she’s already upset you!” Tim exclaims suddenly. “I barely left and she’s already upset you! I’ll come by again tonight,” he declares. “Something was lost in translation, obviously. Strange, I didn’t think I was ambiguous…”

“If you approach Gina ever again, I won’t go on a date with you!” Armie says immediately, before he has time to think about implications.

It has an effect. Though it’s not immediately clear which, because Tim is completely silent. Armie tries to hear breathing, and it seems missing too.

Did he passed out, or what?

“But if I don’t, you will?” Tim asks carefully at last.

“Hate to say it, but yes,” Armie sighs. “Just leave Gi…”

“You’ll go on a date with _me_?” Tim interrupts.

“You sound shocked…” Armie again looks at the phone.

“I just… never mind. Wow, you’ll go on a date with me!” Tim’s voice is full of smile and suddenly he shouts, “I have a date, people! _Yes!_ A date!” and Armie still hears that smile when he continues, “Do you hear? People are cheering!”

Armie indeed hears some strange buzz - something that you usually get from a beehive, if you are stupid enough to put your ear very closely.

Tax collectors in a tizzy, Armie realizes, and it makes him shudder. Sounds pretty ominous, even from a safe distance.

“We have a date!” Tim says again sunnily.

“Yes, we do.”

“Thank you! Wow!”

The amount of genuine gratitude in that voice makes Armie really uncomfortable for some reason.

“Well, I… you’re welcome,” he mumbles and then remembers something else, “Hey, why didn’t you tell me who you are?”

“Who I am?”

“You’re not an accountant!”

“I am, I have a diploma, too. I can bring it,” Tim smiles audibly again, “on a date.”

“You’re not an accountant – you’re a tax collector,” Armie argues.

“Tax compliance officer.”

Oh, an officer! Well, that at least sounds better. Adds some honor to the proceedings.

My alpha is…

Hell, what am I thinking? An accountant is an accountant, no matter the dressing.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me _that_?”

“Some react negatively,” Tim sighs.

“I wonder why…” Armie replies drily.

“It’s just an unfortunate misconception. They think that we are here to ruin lives. But it’s not true, we love people.”

“Aha, _deeply_.”

“Well, I don’t know about degree, but we certainly care.  Look, people are irrational – they hate proctologists, too, and where would they be without them? It’s a noble profession. Just misunderstood.”

“Oh, no, everyone knows exactly what proctologists are up to. Hate is a logical response.”

“It’s not! We both care and we both deal with things no one else wants to see or touch,” Tim pauses dramatically. “Every day.”

“You bend people over, every day.”

“We hold this nation together,” Tim fires back, “and I don’t mean proctologists now. We reallocate money to build schools, roads, bridges, parks, hospitals.” He thinks for a second, “AIDS, Ebola, cholera, syphilis are on the decline. Why do you think?”

“Medical advances and universal hygiene.”

“And us!”

“You? IRS cures syphilis now?”

“Charity, Armie,” Tim probably rolls his eyes, “charity is tax deductible. Indirectly, we cured more sick than anyone can count.”

“You mean you _scare_ people to the point of philanthropy.”

“We provide motivation, yes,” Tim replies proudly.

“And you _still_ wonder why everyone hates you?” Armie shakes his head. But when and how it became a pleasant talk about IRS and syphilis, he asks himself.

Tim is thinking meanwhile.

“Armie, do you know what the earliest written documents are?” he asks out of the blue.

“Um, no…” Armie frowns.

“Clay tablets from Sumer.”

“Ok…”

“Do you know what’s on them?”

“Some terrible myth about how first accountant was born?” Armie smiles.

“Close,” Tim replies drily, “they are tax records. Same thing in Egypt. You see, we are the bedrock of civilization, Armie. Your animosity is misguided - I’ll bring you a couple of our brochures,” then the smile returns, “on a date.”

“Yes, right, a date - where and when?”

“This Friday, I’ll be at your place at seven. I’ll surprise you.”

“I hate your surprises,” Armie says emphatically.

“You’ll like this one.”

“You have no idea what I like!”

“Hmmm, you like quiet piano music and dry red wine.”

“Who told you?”

Nick? When?

“Friday at seven, baby. Wear something pretty for me.”

And then Tim hangs up. Just like that.

“Don’t call me…” Armie starts and is left listening to the beeps.

It takes him 5 minutes and 24 seconds sharp to wrap his mind around the fact that he called to get rid of Tim for good and instead ended up agreeing to go on a date with him.

This guy is just… inescapable. Like and death and taxes.

But Gina is content, when he tells her. She even promises a better year-end bonus, if it all goes smoothly.

 

<> 

And so, one week older and not a second wiser, Armie goes back to digesting. Only now he has less than three days for it.

It’s time to face the facts, he knows. Waiting, cursing, hoping, praying, sitting tight didn’t work – Tim is here and, judging by his attitude, Tim is here to stay.

What to do with this fact, Armie has no idea. He can’t fathom how it all happened to him and so quickly.

December was pleasant and quiet - he finished several projects left over after Thanksgiving, called Elizabeth several times, sent a postcard to his mother, who moved to Florida to be close to his brother, received a similarly bland card in return and ended up celebrating Christmas with a bottle of merlot and a beloved black and white movie. Nothing extraordinary here.

January was a bit more hectic, but still manageable. New projects, a dinner over at Nick’s place, a call to Liz (just one, because she was constantly travelling) and two lovely books he discovered at the favorite store. Again, everything in order.

Then February came, sent this comfortable routine to hell and brought him Tim.

And now he has a date.

With a tax collector, no less.

And he is 34 and he’s never been on one before. With an accountant or anyone else.

The thought tastes bitter and fills him with sadness and quiet shame. He wanted to ask Nick for advice, but it was this strange shame that stopped him.

What would Nick think? Would it seem funny to him?

Is it funny?

Armie starts browsing the net and reads multiple stories, all of them so bizarre to him – strangers meet strangers to decide if they want to become a _couple._

A couple of what?

Armie has no idea how to be a couple. For the first time, he thinks that he probably never experienced it, not the way the people in the stories describe. He had Liz, but Liz was waiting for Matthew, it turned out…

And he never had to accept a stranger in his life, because Liz had never been one.

Liz was a friend, then a wife, then a lover. In that order. And this order Armie finds very reasonable. But before Liz was a friend, she wasn’t anything at all. He saw her at school sometimes, but it would never occur to him to come up and talk to her. He can’t be sure that he even knew her name at the time.

And then, one day, she just appeared in the middle of the school yard atop an Arabian stallion, stolen from her father’s stable, and scattered the usual suspects who had nothing better to do than amuse themselves by torturing a freaky shy kid. But Liz arrived and sent them running, and laughed when they called her names, and then she looked at the kid and said that it was time to go, but if he couldn’t ride, he could hold on to the stirrup and walk along. And the kid did.

No, Liz never was a stranger - Liz wasn’t anything, until she became everything.

But Tim…

Armie continues reading those stories. Some of them boring, some disastrous. Some end in bed, some in ER. Some start in bed and end in ER. Some make people smile wistfully years later, some make them angry.

Strangers meeting strangers, becoming a couple.

He thinks about Tim, so foreign and incomprehensible, smart and shy, and irritating, and bold, and frightening. He thinks about him on the train and walking to work, when he cleans up his apartment for the umpteenth time, when he looks at the snow falling outside his window.

He thinks about his smile and his voice, his sharp eyes and sharper teeth, about his pale elegant fingers turning the pages in the book, about his hand, firm and faithful through the snowstorm.

What is Tim?

Stranger? Opportunity? Problem? Solution? Luck? Fate? Misfortune? Miracle?

An alpha? The alpha?  

He can’t imagine kissing Tim, for example. He just can’t.

But because time for denial is over, he has to admit, at least to himself, that he can imagine making love with Tim.

And how fucked up is this?

His genes, his body, his very cells recognize Tim as danger and pleasure at the same time. Since that meeting in El Piace, since that hand on his neck, since that voice so certain and powerful, he can’t stop seeing it – images, snapshots, phantoms of Tim. He can feel it even – firm grip of man’s hands on his wrists and thighs, sharp shadow of teeth over his jugular, quiet growl, frightening and reassuring; he can see eyes, dark and hungry, shoulders straining; he can hear, mine, mine, mine.

He can almost catch the scent. That combination of chemicals that, if he allows it, if he lets himself accept it, will define Tim for him.

Scent, a shadow line between _stranger_ and _everything_ for alphas and omegas.

And there is one more thing he knows - Tim will bite him,  will kiss away the tears, will lick away the blood, if there are any, and bite him.

That’s what alphas do. They mark. They stake the claim.

Liz didn’t do it because she thought it was terribly archaic and primal, incompatible with this enlightened liberal age, and Armie agreed.

But when he thinks about it now, he suddenly knows without a doubt, that she bit Matthew. Not in spite, but because it’s archaic and primal, brutal and uncompromising.

Like ownership.

Like love.

You always dismiss and even laugh at these things, until there is nothing you want more. Until you find someone you want to love and own.

Yes, Liz bit Matthew and Tim will want to bite him.

Armie stares in the mirror and touches his shoulder, before he can stop himself.

What is Tim?

What does he want?

Foolish questions. Belated and unnecessary.

He told you. He said – you.

You. Nothing else and nothing less.

So it’s not about Tim, and dates, and lavender, and biology, and taxes. Not at all.

It’s about you.

What are you?

What do you want?

Is there anything left to give to someone who wants everything?

Or was it all spent, across miles and years, spent too early and foolishly?

Is it overdraft already or are you still in the black?

And think fast, think fast, dear, because Friday is tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

Armie is still deciding where to hide the plumbing for the carp pond, when Gina opens the door and looks at him frowning.

“Why are you still here?”

“Because you are afraid to fire me,” he replies without taking his eyes from the screen.

“Don’t be an idiot, I’m talking about your date. Go and prepare. I worry,” she frowns.

She worries…

Well, it worries me that so many worried people surround me these days, Armie thinks annoyed.

“It’s at seven,” he sighs. “And there is nothing to prepare – I was promised a surprise.”

“Surprise? Then buy new underwear.”

“You think I’ll piss myself from shock?” he looks at her finally.

Gina doesn’t seem to appreciate the humor.

“Armie, get the fuck out of here and go buy something new. Don’t tell me you’re going to wear this,” she points to his charcoal suit, one of his favorites, “for your date.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It will excite only a mortician!” she exclaims.

“Good,” Armie nods, “I don’t want to excite him. The way he is, he is as dapper as I can tolerate.”

“Look,” Gina sounds tired, “skip the underwear if you’re so squeamish, but buy at least a new tie. In color. Something… lively. Fuck, do _something_. We can’t risk it.”

“Right. I almost forgot you were pimping me out to avoid an audit. Of course!”

“Get out!” Gina growls. “If in ten minutes, you’re still here, you’ll regret it. Trust me.”

He looks at her disappearing back and asks himself once again, just how his private life became a matter of public concern.

Tim worries.

Gina worries.

Even Nick worries, but more unobtrusively.

Armie himself is still mainly puzzled about what people do on dates.

He passes several boutiques on his way home and looks at the rows of ties, thinks about it some more and decides against it.

Gina is right – bright color excites people.

No, better something relaxing or… chilling. Something silver and frosty. And he has enough of those, no need to buy one more.

So he passes those stores and goes directly home, not knowing really what to do until seven, besides thinking again how it all came to this.

He opens his closet and looks at the twenty suits hanging there. Seventeen, ranging from light to dark matte gray, are for work, a navy blue - for church (never worn, thank gods) and two blacks – one for funerals (never worn either) and another for the opera (worn once, Liz was curious, but it didn’t last).

The opera one has embroidery on the lapels, but if you are crafty you can use it for a funeral, too. The deceased won’t raise a ruckus probably.   

Armie looks at it and frowns.

Here is a question – does Tim merit embroidery on the lapels?

His mom would say yes, but that’s his mom.

Armie doesn’t know.

So he browses the internet again, adding the word “surprise” to the search.

Internet doesn’t disappoint. It rarely does, if you need a scare. It provides story after story of poor trusting folks who suffered for love, or a chance to find it.

One chick was surprised with sky diving. The experience was enough for her to marry a miner later. Earth called, Armie surmises.

Another dude was dragged to an ice skating rink. Bashed his kneecaps and married his abuser later. Some never learn, Armie concludes.

But if it’s an ice rink for me, the funeral suit will do, he decides. You should dress accordingly.

He is still not sure about the tie, when at 6:28 there is a doorbell. Armie frowns, looks again at the clock and goes to investigate. It might be Mrs. Clarence, can’t close her balcony door again.

Somehow he is not really surprised, though instantly annoyed, when he opens and finds Tim standing there with two big paper bags in his arms.

“Hi!” Tim smiles

“It’s _you_?”

“I don’t like this question,” Tim frowns. “I really don’t like this question. Who were you expecting? And dressed like this?”

“You, but… Dressed like what?”

“Oh hell, did someone die?” Tim sounds exasperated. “Today of all days? Couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Nobody died. Why…” then Armie gets it. “It’s my opera suit!”

Tim frowns, looks at the lapels and doesn’t seem particularly impressed. “Next time I come in, wear your birthday one.” Then he steps from foot to foot. “May I actually come in?”

“Oh, yes, yes. I apologize… Of course…”

Tim strolls in with his bags – light floors, dirty boots, every footprint lands straight on Armie’s soul.

“Take off your boots”, he demands not able to contain himself.

Tim turns around, looks at Armie, then at his trail and gets it. He starts to bend forward and something falls from one of the bags and rolls away.

“Don’t move!” Armie cries, seeing that Tim was going to chase that thing. “Don’t move”, he repeats more calmly. “Give me the bags, _then_ take off your boots.”

Tim rolls his eyes and gives him the bags. Armie almost doubles over trying to hold them up.

“How can you lift so much?” he murmurs, and then realizes something, “Wait, why are you taking off your boots?”

“You told me.” Tim looks at him surprised.

“Yes, I know, but what – we are staying here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Armie mumbles. “No, wait, you made me wear my suit and we won’t go anywhere?”

“You’re always wearing a suit,” Tim says and takes off his parka, revealing another sweater.

The unknown family benefactor strikes again. Only this masterpiece took the artist on some acid trip, it seems. Colors proliferate, but design was inspired by Rorschach surely.

Armie stares at it and to his amazement discerns an owl, then an owl turns into a skull, then back to an owl.

“Who makes these for you?” he asks genuinely curious.

“My grandma.”

Tell her to stop, please. She’s done enough.

“She has imagination,” he says politely.

“We all receive one for Christmas,” Tim shrugs. “I receive two – because my birthday is very close.” Then he looks at Armie, “What’s your size?”

And for the first time in his life Armie perceives this question not as insulting, but ominous.

You need to think quickly, buddy, he tells himself, or it’s coming for you, too.

“What’s being depicted here?” he deflects, nodding to the sweater.

“You don’t recognize it?” Tim is surprised.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit puzzled.”

“It’s the Great Seal, American eagle,” Tim stretches the sweater, demonstrating. “Spread. Spread eagle.”

Holy hell! The bird is on the verge of extinction as it is…

“Yes, I see now,” Armie tries to sound appreciative. “It’s very… spread.”

“Artists see the world differently,” Tim shrugs philosophically.

“Some certainly do.”

“Alright,” Tim looks around. “Let’s get to it. To the date part.”

“Yes, right,” Armie remembers too. “Wait, there was a surprise.”

“There is.” Tim points to the bags, “You’re holding it.”

Armie looks at the bags and sniffs – it smells like something edible, and his hand discerns a bottle inside.

“My treat,” Tim smiles.

“You’re going to cook?”

“Yes, of course.”

No, I should have put on that funeral suit, Armie thinks immediately. If he cooks as well as his grandma knits, this date will be one of those that end in ER.

Dead on arrival.

Strove, but couldn’t make it.

“And are you good at it?” he asks carefully.

“I love it!”

Not a reassuring answer. Not reassuring at all.

“Alright,” Armie says resignedly, “follow me then.”

He goes to the kitchen and explains on the way, “This is the living room, bathroom is down the hall that way. Last door.”

He sets the bags on the kitchen island and, turning back, sees that Tim took off his sweater and is now wearing an old black t-shirt with some rock band on it, which makes him look even younger.

You can get a sentence for this dating, Armie thinks. Judges won’t be sympathetic.

“I, um… I didn’t know we would cook. I don’t…” he waves towards himself.

Tim looks at him from top to bottom. “Oh, wow…”

Aha, so embroidery was the right choice.

Even accountants can appreciate beauty.

“You have chest hair!” Tim exclaims.

Armie immediately covers his collar with his hand. Fuck, he forgot to put on a tie. Any tie. And he forgot to shave, he stopped shaving three years ago

“What?” Tim asks worried.

“I’m sorry, I just…” Armie looks around and continues to cover his collar. “I need to put on a tie. You came early and…”

“Why do you need a tie?”

“I just… wait a second…” he starts to button up and Tim catches his hand.

“Wait, why do you need a tie? It’s better like that.” Then Tim frowns, “Is it about the hair? It’s cool, I always wanted to have it.”

“You did?”

“Of course. I’m an alpha – I should have it.”

“Well, I’m an omega and I shouldn’t,” Armie says, still squeezing the collar.

“Then you’re perfect for me - you have everything I need,” Tim replies simply and looks around. “Alright, let’s start. Oh, the ice-cream.” He takes something from one of the bags and goes to the fridge.

“This is horrible,” Tim says, looking into the freezer filled with boxes of microwave dinners.

“I don’t cook,” Armie coughs and finally lowers his hand.

“Yes, you need me, too. It’s certainly mutual,” Tim looks again at the stacks of frozen dinners and tries to fit the ice-cream there. “Do you have an apron?”

“I don’t cook…” Armie repeats and suddenly feels embarrassed.

“Table cloth? No? Ok, do you have a bedsheet? Any color.”

“Well, of course,” Armie nods. “How do you I think I sleep?”

“How?” Tim is suddenly very interested.

“I have a bedsheet,” Armie rolls his eyes.

“Then bring it to me,” Tim orders.

By the time Armie returns with a bedsheet, Tim has unpacked the bag and tabletop is filled with food.

“Ok,” Tim takes the white sheet from him, folds in two and wraps it around his midsection, tying behind his back. “Aha, perfect. So, I will prepare the filling and we need to put some water to boil - we’ll cook rice.” He glances at Armie, standing by the kitchen island, looking and feeling useless. “You should probably sit at some distance, because there will be oil and breadcrumbs, and you’re all in black… Hm, that’s unfortunate, I don’t want you far… Ok, never mind, your suit looks expensive, so sit further and look pretty.” He smiles softly, “By the way, you are. Very.”

“What is it you’re going to cook?”

“Arancini and zucchini salad,” Tim replies and takes a casserole from the cupboard, filling it with water. “Sicilian rice balls.”

He moves as if he indeed knows his way around the kitchen, whistling when he sees all the appliances that Armie has and never uses.

“Who taught you?” Armie asks.

“My father and grandfather. In my family alphas always cook.”

“Really?”

“Well, as my grandpa says – call yourself a provider? Provide,” he takes a chopping board out of one of the drawers and unwraps a ball of mozzarella. “You like cheese, right?”

“What if I didn’t?”

“No, you like wine. People who like wine, usually love cheese.”

“How do you know I like wine?”

“You wear suit on a date – of course you like wine,” Tim glances at him. “I can’t even imagine you with a beer.”

“No, to be honest, I don’t like beer,” Armie admits.

“Ok, plates, bowls, vegetables… yes.”

“You really like it? Cooking?”

“It’s relaxing, and there are immediate results. Yes, I like cooking. And just the thought of feeding you…” He looks at Armie and smiles, “Do you know that alphas used to hand feed their omegas? In some cultures they still do.”

“Not happening tonight,” Armie says firmly.

“No, not tonight. Well, depends on you, if you are up to…”

“No! I don’t want to be hand fed!”

“Yes, I haven’t earned it yet. You’re right,” Tim nods.

“Look, I feel useless. Let me at least wash the vegetables,” Armie suggests, hoping to change the conversation that quickly reached bizarre territory.

“Oh, thank you. Yes, that would be helpful,” Tim nods and takes a grater from another cupboard. Armie had no idea he had one even, and Tim managed to find it.

Armie takes off his jacket, rolls up the shirt sleeves and starts washing zucchini, tomatoes and some leaves, that turn out to be mint, when he sniffs them.

“Is she dead?” he hears.

“Who?” Armie asks without turning.

“The woman on the photo.”

Liz, Armie realizes immediately. The picture in the living room that can be seen from the kitchen. He completely forgot that it’s there, it’s difficult to remember the last time when he looked at it. But he doesn’t have to look, he knows it to the last detail – Liz in a dark blue dress, on the restaurant balcony where they celebrated her promotion, that promotion that would send her to London two years later, that would bring her to that plane…

Yes, he knows what Tim sees. He can count the pearls on Liz’s necklace without turning.

Is it insensitive? he thinks suddenly. To have your ex-wife’s photo on display when you have a date in your home?

Well, he didn’t invite Tim here, he rationalizes, and the fact irritates him – he didn’t plan to have guests tonight and Tim just decided it for him, like he does everything these days.

“No, she’s married,” he says at last. “Maybe even pregnant now.”

This last he only suspects, because Liz didn’t say anything.  But during their last videocall he noticed something different about her – she became softer somehow, softer and more radiant. And then there was her strange remark about Matthew being “too fussy, silly man”.

Why did he think that she never wanted children?

How ridiculously blind he was. How comfortably blind.

Then he actually hears his response and realizes how idiotic it sounded.

“I mean, no, she is not dead,” he tries to correct himself. “She lives in England now.”

“Your ex?” Tim continues grinding parmesan.

“My ex-wife, yes.”

“She is very beautiful,” Tim glances at the photo.

Armie puts the vegetables in the bowl and brings it to the table. Tim nods, then looks at him.

“Do you love her?” he asks quietly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to talk about it,” Armie replies.

Tim nods again, then hears that the water started to boil and goes to wash the rice, which he then puts into the casserole.

Armie looks at the photo discreetly. He’ll put it away. Three years have passed. If not Tim, someone else would have asked eventually.

Though, who, if he never has guests…

No matter, he’ll put it away. It’s not right to keep the photo of someone else’s wife.

“I thought we’d go out,” he mumbles, remembering his earlier thoughts.

Tim returns to the table and to his cheese.

“Well, I know, people do it. I went to a couple of dates where it was a movie and once to an aquarium, but it’s… come on, I don’t need to look at some actors. What’s the point? I want to look at you,” he glances at Armie. “And then I thought you’d be more comfortable in your natural habitat.”

“Tim, stop with this animalistic terminology. Please?”

“Don’t you like your home?”

“I like my home, that’s not the point!”

“But you don’t like color,” Tim looks around.

“I love color!”

“Then why is it all gray?”

“It’s not gray, it’s greige,” Armie replies irritated. “Gray and beige. It’s soothing to the eyes. Soft.”

“It feels cold,” Tim shivers.

“You’ll find cold anywhere,” Armie shakes his head. “You’re a cryophobe.”

“Tax compliance officer.”

“I don’t mean… it means a person who is afraid of the cold.”

“I’m not afraid of the weather,” Tim explains patiently. “I fear hamsters and budget cuts.”

“Budget cuts?”

“Every federal employee’s worst nightmare,” Tim nods. He finishes with parmesan, takes a bowl, breaks two eggs, adds the grated cheese and mixes it together.

“How did you become a… whatever you became, professionally?” Armie asks watching him.

“Graduated from college, worked for a small accounting firm, then applied to Inferno,” Tim tastes the mixture in the bowl.

“And what, Devil was hiring?” Armie chuckles.

“More respect, please.”

“You called it hell yourself!”

“We use it as term of endearment,” Tim sighs and looks at him. “But you can’t imagine how many people address their forms to “ _Infernal_ Revenue Service”. My first job was to sort them out and send back. Hundreds and hundreds!” he says shaking his head.

“I don’t think they mean it as a typo…”

“Are you a libertarian?” Tim growls.

“Is it a deal-breaker?” Armie asks hopefully.

Tim actually thinks about it. “No,” he says at last. “My great-uncle married a Wiccan. I think I can stomach a libertarian.”

Hearing this, Armie’s mind immediately flashes back to all the anaconda videos.

“I don’t want you to stomach me…” he mumbles.

Tim doesn’t seem to hear him, because the rice is ready. So he lays it in another bowl and goes to put it in the fridge to cool. On opening the fridge he stops,

“This,” he turns to Armie and points inside, “this breaks my heart. It’s mindboggling – all this time I lived so close and my omega was starving. Horrible feeling.”

Armie looks in the fridge too – it’s very clean, very uncluttered, only a bottle of ketchup and yogurt.

“I wasn’t starving!” he exclaims angrily. “I just don’t cook.”

“I’ll feed you,” Tim promises fervently. “Today and for the rest of your natural life.”

With that Armie decides that it’s high time to discuss some things long overdue.

“Tim, you need to slow down with this,” he tries. “Stop… you’re going too fast.”

“Too fast?” Tim frowns.

“Tim, we met just weeks ago and you’re already… I had plans for the rest of my natural life, you know? _None_ of them included you.”

Harsh, but necessary, he thinks.

“Well, I had plans, too,” Tim replies unperturbed. “Not until my funeral, to be honest, - just a trip to Europe this summer. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” He glances at Armie. “The tickets are refundable anyway.”

“Tim, please, listen to me, I’m serious. I realize that you have this certainty, that you feel all these things, because of my scent, but it’s not like that for me. I…” Armie stops and thinks about it, “I can’t just start feeling it on command… I need time, time to think. Because whatever is happening to you, it’s… it’s just…” he looks at Tim, not knowing how to say it.

“It’s not happening to you,” Tim finishes for him.

“I need time,” Armie pleads.

“Like Erica?”

“Erica?”

“My girlfriend,” Tim says and stares at the ball of mozzarella in his hand. “It was the same, you know? _I need time, Timmy. We need to slow down, Timmy._ Well, I gave her time, I waited, then, three weeks later, I thought I’d surprise her…” he pauses. “Well, I was surprised too – there was another alpha there, and then it was _can’t you get a hint, Timmy?”_

“Can’t you get a hint, Timmy,” he repeats and looks straight at Armie, “I don’t want to lose you, Armie. I _won’t_ lose you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He says it with such honesty and simplicity that Armie is left speechless.

“I’m not Erica, Tim,” he whispers.

“You promise?” Tim watches him intently.

“I promise,” Armie swallows.

Tim nods and returns to the fridge for the rice, cool by now.

Armie is still thinking about his words, when something clicks in his brain.

“Did you threaten Gina because of this? You thought, when I didn’t call on Monday…”

“I didn’t threaten her,” Tim spills the breadcrumbs on the table.

“Tim, you knew what you were doing.”

“I won’t lose you,” Tim repeats stubbornly and looks at him.

“Tim, I’m not a thing and I’m not a toy. If you don’t want to lose me, please don’t treat me like that,” Armie says quietly.

“You are my omega, Armie.”

“Maybe. But being your omega doesn’t mean being your pet,” he tries to explain. “Tim, look at me, I try to understand you and I think I like you, honestly, but please try to understand me too. We need to go slow. Can you do it for me?”

“I can do anything for you.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too, you’re my omega.”

“We’ll slow down then?” Armie looks at him intently.

“What does it mean?” Tim asks, suspicious

“We’ll take time to know each other.”

“How?”

“We’ll talk.”

“ _Talk_?” Tim sounds so horrified, you’d think Armie asked him to go and roll in the snow naked.

“You said you’d do anything,” Armie reminds him.

“I didn’t know you were such a handful!”

Armie doesn’t budge. He waits.

“You’re worse than a tax attorney, I swear,” Tim huffs. “They are usually – let’s discuss it, let’s negotiate. What’s to discuss here? Your shady client bought three yachts with cash!” he exclaims. “Negotiate!”

Armie doesn’t budge.

“Alright, we’ll talk,” Tim concedes reluctantly. “Then what?”

“That will become clear during talking,” Armie replies and is very pleased with himself.

At least one victory.

Tim looks thoughtfully at him, then takes a handful of rice, adds a piece of mozzarella, makes it into a ball, then dips the ball in the egg mixture and starts rolling it over the breadcrumbs.

Armie watches his actions with fascination. It’s a pleasure to watch someone who knows what he is doing and is good at it.

“Do you know how my grandpa Guillaume married my grandma Dominica?” Tim glances at him.

“Author of the deer sweater?”

Tim frowns and starts making another ball. “Ah, no, that’s my maternal grandma.”

“Alright, how your grandpa Guillaume married your grandma Dominica?”

“Put a gun to her head and married her.”

It is said so calmly that at first Armie thinks that he’s misheard.

“And you think it’s normal?” he asks incredulously.

“I think it’s effective,” Tim nods to himself, “and it is.”

“Won’t work with me!” Armie promises.

“Works with everyone, trust me.”

“But that’s barbaric!” he cries.

“Why?”

“Forcing a helpless woman is immoral!”

“What helpless woman?” Tim looks at him surprised.

“Your grandma!”

“My grandma can bench ninety pounds even now!”

“Tim, if a gun to the head… if that’s your modus operandi, I’m telling you right now – we won’t get along,” Armie declares.

“Feminism ruined romance,” Tim complains and makes another ball.

“What feminism?” Armie explodes. “The fact that I want you to respect me has _nothing_ to do with feminism!”

“All feminists say that…”

“Tim…”

“Ok, ok, I got it – I’ll return my tickets and we’ll _talk_ ,” Tim groans. “Fuck, actually, I’m not sure they are refundable!” he looks at Armie scornfully.

“You can go to Europe! What’s stopping you?”

“Your progressivism,” Tim growls.

“Oh, come on, you can’t honestly think that your grandparents’ story is a good example!”

“54 years together and counting – it’s the best example.”

“54 years against her will!”

“What are you talking about?”

“About the gun to her head!”

“It was consensual!”

“Consensual???”

“Of course, what are you taking us for?” Tim looks at him as if Armie is the crazy one here. “She wanted to marry grandpa Gui, but she wanted the dress, and grandpa said – no, fuck the dress, we don’t need a dress, we need a priest, and now. So he went to the barracks and returned with a gun, and married her. He was in the Foreign Legion at the time, guns were available.”

“How fortunate for grandpa Gui,” Armie remarks acidly.

“Indeed,” Tim agrees. “Ok, come here.”

“Why?”

“I’ll teach you to make arancini.” He smiles sweetly, “As a strong independent man, you should not rely on your alpha for everything. Come here. Or what, your liberal ass is quite content with me slaving in your kitchen, meek and barefoot?”

Armie narrows his eyes, “You are hardly meek and barefoot.”

“Come here.”

Armie stares some more, Tim stares right back and waits.

Your alpha… wrapped in a bedsheet and covered in breadcrumbs, with crazy family and caveman worldview.

Your alpha…

Armie goes.

“Ok,” Tim instructs, “stand behind me, I’ll be your apron. Come on.”

Armie does it without thinking and then suddenly they are so close, that Tim’s curls tickle his nose and Tim’s scent is stronger than all the perfume Armie poured on himself tonight.

Tim is so close, and Tim is so tiny. So, so tiny, his whole frame fitting right between Armie’s shoulders.

No, he is not tiny, I am huge, I am just… I am too much. What was I thinking? I am too mu…

“Ok,” Tim says quietly, “now take the rice in your left hand, a handful, yes, and add mozzarella. Yes. Now make a ball, press tighter,” he cups Armie’s hand in his and squeezes slightly. “You don’t want it to fall apart later. Yes, now dip it into the egg. Yes. And now we roll it through the breadcrumbs.”

Armie looks at the ball in his hand, then at those that Tim prepared earlier. They are all neat and round, very orderly. His is big and rather crooked in comparison.

“My hands are too big for this…” Armie whispers and why he whispers he has no idea.

“Your hands are absolutely right for anything,” Tim replies calmly. “Now roll it.”

He takes Armie’s hand and gently directs it on the table, but the ball falls apart almost immediately.

“Tim, I can’t cook…”

“Shhh, it’s fine,” Tim picks up the scattered rice and forms a ball out of it. It looks so effortless in his hands, so simple. He finishes an arancino and puts it next in the row. It sits there, huge and incongruous. It doesn’t fit.

“Tim, you can do it better…” Armie says and starts to move away, but Tim grabs his wrists and stops him.

“You’re doing fine, take more rice and let’s do it again.”

This ball holds, but it’s another huge one. Rough, wrong.

“I just can’t cook…”

“Armie, nothing has to be perfect to be good,” Tim says gently. “It’s as edible as the rest and it will taste the same.”

He turns and his nose brushes Armie’s cheek. Armie tries to pull back, but Tim keeps holding his wrists.

“We’ll talk as long as you want,” he says quietly, “but in the end you’ll still be mine. Now and always.” He inhales deeply and kisses Armie’s cheek. “Always.”

“Now take that skillet, pour four inches of olive oil in it and put it on the stove. I’ll finish with the balls.”

 

<> 

Armie can’t tell how much time has passed. The bottle of Chardonnay that makes him smile every time that he sees the label is almost empty. There are only two arancini left and the candle which Tim also brought with him is half of its original size now.

He knows that he is a little tipsy, warm and comfortable and smiling easier than usual. He remembers his earlier fears about the ice rink and decides that if dating can be like this – sitting at the kitchen table and talking about the pros and cons of progressive taxation – he can probably deal with that. It’s not so bad.

“Ok, we have enough for the last toast,” Tim says and pours the rest of the wine for them. “To what?”

“To good conversations?” Armie suggests.

“In bed,” Tim adds promptly.

Armie is not even annoyed or surprised. After Tim fished a suspiciously big arancino from the bowl and told him that his balls are delicious, he formed relative psychological immunity to childish innuendos.

You can’t choke on zucchini every three minutes.

“Why in bed?” he asks.

“Everything is better in bed.”

“Even tax attorneys?”

“No,” Tim winces, “this lot can’t be improved.”

“Some will say that about _your_ lot.”

“You’ll prove them wrong soon enough,” Tim winks. “I’ll supply you with hard facts.”

“You’re so _twelve_ ,” Armie rolls his eyes, but smiles nevertheless.

“Have you ever been?” Tim smiles too.

“Twelve?”

Twelve…

Twelve was when his eyes turned unmistakably blue, when the growth spurt began, when his mom started smelling of bourbon in the afternoon, when his father stopped calling him “my little man”…

“Not like this, no,” he says quietly.

“You were studying a lot, right? Reading, libraries, straight As all around,” Tim laughs. “Botanical collection or ant colony, some shit like that.”

“I read a lot, yes,” Armie agrees. “Never collected plants, though. I hated biology.”

“Well, I hated all of it. Was bored to tears most of the time.”

“And math?”

“Hated it too, to be honest,” Tim nods, then sighs deeply. “Statistics was the first A of my life. My first love, you might say. Queen of the sciences, statistics.” He raises his glass.

“It’s dry as dust.”

“It’s the poetry of reality,” Tim argues. “It shows you the world as it really is. No bullshit. No hints.”

“No abstractions?” Armie smiles.

“None. For example, if you want to know the probability of being bitten by tsetse fly in New York, you go to statistics and you get your answer. You take the number of people living currently in the city, add the commuters, subtract the average number of people on vacation, then divide it by all the cases of people bitten by tsetse before and you’ll get…”

“And you’ll get exactly zero,” Armie interrupts his tirade. “Tsetse lives in tropics. You don’t need formulas to figure that out.”

That gets to Tim unexpectedly.

First loves, they are a touchy subject.

“Well, alright, smartass. Let’s take another example. Do you want to know statistical probability of me meeting another you?”

“Another me?”

“My other true mate. There are 2 or 3 possible for every person.”

“And what is that probability?”

“10-50, or impossible in other words. You have to understand that we are talking about all the people who ever lived and all those who haven’t been born yet. So, well, ok, no it’s not 10-50, I’m just too lazy to go into it right now. It’s actually more fucked-up than this - the chance of all my mates dying before I was born or 90-year-old me, sitting in the Central Park and suddenly seeing a 10-year-old and recognizing his or her scent, is _higher_ than me meeting another you. Scary, huh?”

“10-year-old? That _is_ fucked-up.”

“Well, to good conversations, as you said,” Tim raises his glass and drinks.

“Wait,” Armie starts thinking, “but then it’s possible that your another true mate is living a bus stop from you, right now!”

“Or that it’s a Tibetan monk, 90 years old, _right now_.”

Armie frowns.

“No,” Tim shakes his head, “I’ll stick with you. You don’t win a fortune twice. Theoretically possible, empirically - very fucking unlikely.”

“So I’m just statistics…” Armie smiles sadly and hopes he doesn’t sound as disappointed as he suddenly feels.

“No, you’re an idiot,” Tim huffs. “I’m telling you that you’re my damn unicorn, my once in a lifetime, my bamboo flower - and you manage to find something depressing in all this.”

“Your bamboo flower?”

“Some bloom only once in a hundred years and never again,” Tim informs him. “Yes, you’re my bamboo flower.”

Armie looks at him for a long moment.

“Tim, but this is just… Look, what you feel is…”

“Don’t tell me what I feel,” Tim sits straighter, “you don’t know the half of it.”

“Ok, but it’s based on… Let’s be honest, it’s just…”

“It’s based on the fact that we are genetically compatible to a degree that allows us to produce the best possible offspring, meaning most viable, meaning fit to survive the competition,” Tim says calmly.

“Hm, well, yes.”

“Yes.” Tim leans forward and tries to catch Armie’s eyes, “Look at me. Why are you so troubled by this?”

“It’s only biology, Tim,” Armie glances at him reluctantly.

“And this?”

“This?”

“Do you regret tonight?” Tim motions to the table.

“No,” Armie has to admit.

“Then why stop at one evening?” Tim asks. “I bake, too.”

“Bake?”

“Cookies, muffins, pies, cakes. Everything,” he lists proudly. “And bread.”

“You bake bread?” Armie smiles.

“Yes, I can. Grandpa Gui taught me.”

“Why?”

“To seduce you. Why else?”

“With bread?” Armie laughs

“French bread,” Tim shakes his finger at him, “with raisins.”

“Think it will work?”

Tim looks at him for some time. “It _is_ working – your scent has changed,” he smiles. “I had you at bamboo.”

“It’s already late, Tim…” Armie gets up and starts collecting the plates.

“Armie, it’s never late, not until you’re dead,” Tim tells to his retreating back. “And for a tax collector, even death is no excuse. We’ll carve up the estate later.”

“I was talking about the time. It’s half past ten. I’ll call you a taxi,” Armie replies, puts the dishes in the sink and retrieves his phone.

Tim comes up to him and places his hand on the phone screen.

“Armie,” he looks up, “we’ll go slow, but we’ll go.”

“It should be here in ten minutes,” Armie mumbles. “They are usually very quick.”

Tim keeps looking at him.

“Alright, I’ll help you with the dishes then,” he says finally.

Armie glances again at the clock.

It is late, it is very late, but he can’t help remembering the images of bamboo in bloom Youngmi showed him once, while working on one of her projects.

He doesn’t know if it was the one that blooms once in a century, but it was very beautiful.

It seemed special.

 

<> 

So they decide – or rather Armie accepts - to go slow. Going slow means that Tim comes two-three times a week during lunch break and meets Armie in El Piace. Armie wanted to change the venue, but then decided that if you’re going to be embarrassed better to stay in one place. The less population is covered the better.

Tim, it turns out, has a flexible schedule and can afford lengthy breaks, because, as he explains it, he is not in customer service. His supervisors care more about results than the amount of hours an employee spent at his or her desk. Which shatters all Armie’s assumptions about bureaucracy.

Look at it, they are flexible. Who knew?

But, yes, they are, so Tim meets him in El Piace in their usual by now booth.

The second discovery that Armie makes thanks to this going slow business is more significant. He is 34 and naturally shy and now he suddenly realizes that he is one of those people who just can’t shut up if given the opportunity.

Again, who knew?

Armie certainly didn’t. He always believed that he hated small talk or talking in general when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, and now he is talking and talking and talking.

About the difference between Foxtail and Gray pines, about a new type of sofa stuffing that recently appeared on the market, about evolution of armchairs, about five different styles of parquet flooring, about ambient, task and accent lighting, about sconces, chandeliers and pendants, about washable wallpaper and lead paint.

He talks about all those things that he learned, and while he talks he makes a third discovery – Tim can listen and Tim can listen patiently.

Tim sits there, drinks his chocolate and learns about wallpaper and parquet, and, to Armie’s genuine amazement, even comes up with smart questions from time to time.

Armie hits him with credenzas from Nebraska just to test his limits, and Tim passes with flying colors.

Tim listens.

Armie talks.

Time flies.

Hunky-dory.

Then an unexpected cloud mars the horizon, and this cloud has Diego’s shape. The waiter whom Armie trusted starts hitting on Tim.

Armie is at first surprised, then annoyed, then indignant. The customers are here to be served, not to be winked at.

Certainly not.

But he is also a polite person, and no polite person smashes the waiter’s head into the table. No, polite people hit where it hurts the most.

So Armie aims carefully and hits Diego straight in the tips. One US dollar at a time.

Of course, every complicated scheme needs time to show results, and this one is no exception, but finally, at three bucks Diego gets it. As if the words cease and desist weren’t staring straight at him, bright blue and pulsing.

Armie waits to see if the message is truly received and acknowledged and then starts putting the dollars back. One at a time, there is no rush here.

But, no, capitalism is invincible and Diego miraculously can control himself again. No more winking, no more _how about a muffin, Timmy_.

Timmy!

What a… I swear…

Well, anyway, no more muffins for _Timothée_.

It’s settled and Armie relaxes, as it happens, prematurely, because the thing that happens next is completely unexpected.

At least, by his own reckoning.

What happens next is he is talking about table drawers and the fact that they usually start to jam if the apartment is wet and isn’t aired regularly.

“So, you see,” Armie explains, “what you need to do is put your desk under direct sunlight. It’s logical not only for logistical reasons, but it’s healthier for the furniture, too. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Tim nods and finishes his chocolate. “And now I’m going to get up, sit by you and kiss you. Do you understand?”

And by the time Armie manages to utter _what do you mean_ , Tim is already there, by his side.

“Oh, no, no, no…” Armie moves sideways.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Tim moves right with him.

Armie collides with the wall and stops.

“Tim, why?”

“Armie,” Tim sighs, “it’s the end of March, I met you in February – the seasons had time to change. Time’s up. Come here.”

“We’re in public,” Armie whispers.

“Don’t worry I’ll kiss you in private, too.” Tim cups his face and tries to turn it towards himself. “Come here, it’s alright…” he says gently.

“Tim, Diego…”

“Can go hike.”

“Tim…”

Tim kisses his nose, “It’s ok.”

“Tim, there are people…”

Which is true – there are about eight people in the whole place. Eight more than Armie is comfortable with.

“Armie, people are everywhere,” Tim strokes his cheek. “They are going to colonize Mars now. That’s not the reason not to kiss me.”

“We should talk more…”

“We will, after. I promise.” Tim kisses the corner of his lips gently.

Armie looks at his lips, suddenly so close, and tries to understand what it is he is feeling.

Fear?

Repulsion?

Attraction?

He got really comfortable with Tim by now, with the fact that Tim is there, that he exists and has to be taken into account. He still doesn’t know if he likes him more than a friend, but he stopped being so jumpy around him. Though on some level he can’t help reacting as any omega would to any alpha – you sense strength, but you know that this strength can be crushing and you need to keep your distance.

Any alpha…

Is Tim just an alpha?

He thinks about Gina of all people. He’s never been skittish around Gina – she astonishes him sometimes, drives him insane, often inspires respect and even admiration. But if Gina asked him to kiss her, he would laugh, not out of panic, but because it would be genuinely funny, simply absurd.

Tim, though, is no laughing matter.

So tiny and delicate, and he makes Armie nervous the way Gina with all her fury never would.

And so what he is feeling, when he looks at Tim’s lips again, is curiosity, he realizes.

He is nervous and curious and very uncertain.

What if Tim hates it?

Will he admit it?

Why is it important?

They are nose to nose, when he hears, “Have you ever kissed a male alpha?”

The obvious answer that Armie has never kissed male anything is probably written all over his face, because Tim exhales and says, “Good.”

“Good?”

“One nightmare less. I still sleep poorly.”

“Oh…”

“Ok, so the only thing with guys – teeth are bigger and sharper, so don’t go to town on your first visit. Ok?”

“I won’t,” Armie promises and waits.

They stare at each other some more. Then, when Armie thinks that Tim probably changed his mind, he moves closer and gently kisses him. Just lips on lips, nothing else.

“You ok?” Tim asks quietly.

“Well, yes.”

Is he nervous, too? Why?

He is an alpha, they are usually…

“Good,” Tim whispers. “Then once more, with feeling.”

And this time Armie feels tongue stroking his lips, asking for invitation. Well, he thinks, considering that I don’t want to throw up, I probably should try to enjoy it.

But the second he opens his mouth, something changes, the energy between them, the dynamic, because Tim moves forward with his whole body, his hand slides behind Armie’s neck and grips him firmly, and his other hand lands on Armie’s chest, right above his now madly beating heart.

“It’s ok, darling,” Tim whispers. “It’s ok. It’s me.”

And he kisses him again.

Now curiosity wins, and Armie, before he has time to think it through, decides to investigate about those teeth. He brushes one lightly. It does feel sharp and big, bigger than Liz’s.

And if the fangs are big…

Tim growls all of a sudden and Armie immediately pulls back.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t…”

“Do it again!” Tim demands.

“But you…”

“It wasn’t… Look, there is a difference. When it’s like this,” he growls again, “it’s _back off_ , but like this,” he demonstrates, “it’s come hither basically. So,” he tugs Armie back to him, “come hither.”

By the time Tim is finally satisfied, Armie had time to investigate the other fang and decide that kissing someone who is not Liz is strange certainly, but not so bad.

Though he doubts he’ll do any additional field research. Tim is quite enough. One adventure at a time.

“Alright,” Tim pulls back and licks his lips. “Now about those drawers.”

“Drawers?” Armie asks stupidly.

“They jam.”

“Yes…”

“Well, tell me how to unjam them,” Tim sits back and looks at him expectantly.

Yes, he hated it, Armie decides. He is just too polite to say it outright.

But he doesn’t want to know for sure and so he talks about drawers for the next 15 minutes, before Tim has to leave.

Yes, he certainly hated it.

Good?

Armie keeps asking himself this question until their next meeting. He can’t decide.

Meanwhile Tim orders his chocolate, looks at the watch and announces, “I have forty minutes. So it’s thirty for furniture and ten for kisses. Fair?”

“Ten _minutes_?” Armie stares.

“You want twenty-twenty?”

“No, ten… ten is fine.”

It’s March now. Snow is retreating, rivers break ice with a smile, everything is a little bit faster, a little bit sharper – people, cities, sounds, feelings.

Spring is in the air, and for ten _minutes_ it tastes like chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this.
> 
> I hope you weren't bored. It's probably self-evident by now that I like people talking, but it can get out of hand, I know. Again, I hope it wasn't a drag.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably remind here that this story is tagged as "Angst and Humor". But keep in mind that it wasn't tagged "Tragedy".

Time is an arrow, steel and implacable, goes around and strikes at midnight. Never misses, never forgets. Twenty four hours, twelve numbers, one midnight, but it always comes.

There are two midnights on his clock. Two guards that never sleep and never leave their watch.

There is a reason he dreads spring - because it’s coming. There is a reason he loves autumn – because it’s over.

Heat.

His midnight squared.

April and August.

It’s April on the clock. Time is merciless.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, at his chest and shoulders, at his huge hands, at his everything that he usually prefers not to see, and remembers once again, that however fast and however far you run, you can’t escape yourself.

Big, hairy, unwieldy.

Nothing of that grace and lightness that his genes promised and delivered to others. None of the beauty and allure.

Twelve, he remembers. Have you ever been twelve?

I was. I’d have preferred not to.

His father had nothing against omegas, as long as they were someone else’s children. His mother loved omegas, because they were so pretty. So dad wanted a boy, and mom wanted a beautiful one, and somehow Armie here managed to disappoint them both.

Well, his father didn’t cry over spilled milk for long, so to speak, figured that a problematic child is too much bother, married his mistress and rode into the Californian sunset with her. Didn’t forget to take most of the money with him, either.

And his poor mom was left with a son who she all of a sudden decided to treat as a half-daughter, not a pretty one, but what can you do. She also thought it was sensible to continue with the treatment her husband insisted on, while he was still in the picture.

They changed it now, because parental wishes changed – as in let’s stop the growth, let’s make the feet smaller, let’s smooth the skin a bit.

Side-effects?

A bit of drowsiness. Maybe nausea. Trifles like that.

What they would call “feeling suicidal” years later. But that would be years later. Then it was trifles.

And consider yourself lucky – it passed almost without leaving a trace. Almost. Apart from that chest hair. Like an afterthought and mockery of his father’s wishes.

He looks at his chest again and winces. He wouldn’t have looked, but it’s April on the clock, and this April is very different, because there is Tim.

Armie doesn’t have to think about it, he knows without a doubt that Tim can’t be anywhere near him during his heat. He will tell him that he has a business trip, or better yet that he is going to visit his mom in Florida. Simple. Gina of course will know the truth, but Gina is many things, and being a complete asshole isn’t one of them, - she understands this stuff, she will cover for him.

There is a problem though. Is there a chance that Tim can smell it on him weeks in advance? Others don’t, but Tim? He tries to search the internet again and finds nothing but hearsay. True mates are rare, people mostly guess and exchange their theories, without any references to actual studies.

It bothers him. It can blow up the whole plan. The heat usually starts on the third week of April, but days earlier his temperature begins rising gradually, his appetite intensifies – body prepares for upcoming ordeal.

Yes, Tim might notice it. He will.

And there is another thing, quite surprising, - he doesn’t want to lie to Tim. It makes him feel guilty. Tim trusts him and lie is a betrayal.

Yes, lie is a betrayal, but he can’t risk having Tim anywhere close during those days. Not yet. He needs more time, they both need more time…

But time is a scrupulous creditor, it doesn’t allow late payments.

So he will lie. Tim trusts him.

 

<> 

Tim doesn’t bother sitting across from him, when they meet next time. He takes off his jacket, makes a sign to Diego for his “usual” and plumps beside Armie with a deep frown on his face.

“You ok?” Armie asks and silently thanks Diego who brought the drink immediately, because the guys probably know by now, that if there is Armie in sight, soon the order for chocolate will come.

Tim frowns again and looks into the cup.

“I have bad news,” he says pursing his lips. “Well, not bad, just inopportune.”

“Inopportune news?”

“FBI busted a meat factory in North Dakota,” Tim announces. “It’s a mess - illegals, double booking, evasion, money laundering. There is a meth kitchen on the property. It’s chaos. Everyone is there now – deportation, labor, justice, EPA. And us, of course.” He looks at Armie, “I’m going to North Dakota for about three weeks, maybe more.”

“Oh, wow…”

Because oh, WOW. Someone somewhere listened and answered his silent appeals.

Thank you, North Dakota! Never been, but I’m starting to see what a wonderful state you are…

“Why are you looking like this?” Tim’s eyes narrow.

“Like what?”

“You look…” Tim leans closer and then pulls back suddenly. “So help me, you look relieved, you bastard!”

“No, no, no,” Armie vehemently shakes his head.

“Look at me,” Tim demands.

Armie does, reluctantly.

“Armie…”

“I… I… I look concerned,” he tries. “Trust me.”

“We nailed a bunch of crooks! For whom are you suddenly so concerned?”

“Well, for you, obviously,” Armie hopes he sounds honest. “I mean, it’s _North_ Dakota. Must be cold up there.”

Tim keeps looking at him intently. “Yes, that’s true,” he says slowly. “The other one would be better. But you don’t get California in my position, I’m still a junior basically. Look at me again.” He leans closer, “No, I don’t want to leave you. It’s not right, not now.”

“Why not _now_?”

“You’ll have time to think. Gods know, what you’ll think about while I’m not here!” Tim exclaims. “Armie, just a gentle reminder, no one disappears from my firm. FBI loses people from time to time, but we don’t, so… just don’t get any ideas. Ok?”

“Tim, calm down.”

“You know, I will have to travel a lot. Last year it was only two trips, but it will be 4-5 times a year usually,” Tim sighs. “How can I leave you alone 5 times a year in this city?”

“I’ve been living here for 15 years now and survived,” Armie reminds him.

“Inexplicably,” Tim grumbles. “No, I’ll quit my job, I’ll go to private sector. Money is better.”

“Tim, you love your job,” Armie reasons. “Inexplicably.”

“But you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it. I just… To each his own, I guess.”

He still can’t believe his luck. Bad news? That’s the best possible news he could receive. Tim will be away, no reason to lie at all. Everything is settled. Everything will be fine.

He shouldn’t look so content, though, or it’s good luck wasted.

“Armie, I will always earn less than you,” Tim says meanwhile. “Probably, much less.”

“Oh, that’s horrible, I’m a gold-digger - I was planning to sponge you dry,” Armie smiles.

“I’m serious.”

“What do you want me to say? You probably earn less, so?”

“I saw your place, you love beautiful things,” Tim says quietly.

“Tim, beautiful things I love are all in museums and libraries,” Armie explains patiently.

“I can buy you books,” Tim says immediately.

“Drink your chocolate and stop saying nonsense, please.”

“Armie,” Tim turns to him suddenly, “don’t think while I’m away. Don’t _think_!”

“Trust me, I won’t have time to…”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a big new project, only this.”

“Will you miss me?”

“You are still here,” Armie smiles.

“I’ll call you every day,” Tim promises.

“Tim, come on, it’s North Dakota, not North Pole. The occasion doesn’t merit so much melodrama.”

“So you won’t miss me? At all?” Tim huffs.

“You’ll call every day.”

“I’ll text, too.” Tim puts down his cup. “Come here.”

How did it become so normal and familiar? Armie thinks, when Tim kisses him. I don’t even have to ask what he means, what he wants. I don’t have to ask myself, if I want it.

Less than three months and I know that his nose is always cold, that his lips often taste of brown sugar, that if I touch his face, my hand makes it look as small as a doll’s, that he always starts with the upper lip and always tugs at the bottom by the end.

That I end it, because I really don’t want to…

“Ok, ok, enough,” Armie pulls back, “you’re too loud.”

“You’re that good,” Tim smirks, “and I will be louder when we get to the good stuff.”

“Let’s talk about stair runners,” Armie adjusts his tie unnecessarily. “It’s not easy to choose the right one. I can teach you…”

“No, to hell with stair runners!” Tim leans closer again, “Armie, I’m dying to make love to you. Just dying. Let’s talk about this.”

“No, let’s not,” Armie hides behind his cup. “And don’t growl at me - sounds like electric drill, to be honest.”

“Because I’m in the mood for some drilling and you want to talk about rugs!”

“You’re always in the mood,” Armie murmurs into his coffee.

“Not true,” Tim protests, but thankfully pulls back. “I’d been living like a monk for two years, since Erica dumped me.” He pauses, “No, I had one erotic dream, with my statistics teacher. One or two. Yes, two – one at my place and another on the table in the Oval Office. It’s a big table…”

“Poor woman…”

“It was a guy, in his fifties, with a Santa Claus beard. Hot as hell,” Tim sighs contentedly. “Older men are in my stars, it turns out,” he winks. “Oh, right, older men…”

Tim suddenly dives under the table and produces a big paper bag.

“For you,” he sets it in front of Armie.

“An old man kit?”

“No, food. Lasagna, risotto and chicken curry,” Tim opens it and shows him containers, neatly stacked inside. “It will last for a week, there is a lot there. If you insist on eating from a microwave, at least you’ll eat something healthy. I thought about a salad, but they get soggy in the fridge. This you only need to heat up. I’m sorry I didn’t think about it before. I just… Well, I’m learning, too,” Tim shrugs.

“Tim, you didn’t have to…” Armie stares at the bag.

“I had to, I’m an alpha and I need to start behaving like one,” Tim nods. “My dad chewed me out for negligence, and he is right.”

What can you do with it? Armie thinks. How can you not feel something when somebody does it for you? How can you not feel more than you probably should? More than is prudent?

“I will miss you, Tim,” he whispers before he can stop himself.

If it all goes to hell, I will miss you so much…

“Yep, cooking!” Tim smiles brightly. “Worked with Ma Dominica, worked with my mom, works w…”

And for the first time Armie kisses him first. He doesn’t care about the people around, he doesn’t care about seeming too eager, he doesn’t care to play hard to get for a second.

He doesn’t know how to say it other way – I will miss you, I’m starting to miss you right now and I’m afraid of my own ghosts, I don’t know if you’re stronger than them…

Tim doesn’t waste a minute to think about anything, it seems, because he presses Armie into the wall and kisses him deeply, no hesitance, no doubts.

“I will take care of you, all of you,” he whispers. “You’re my miracle, my 10-50. So fragile, so precious…”

And Armie can’t stand it, he can’t bear it.

“Ok, ok,” he coughs and gently pushes Tim away. “Thank you for the…” he points to the bag. “You didn’t have to, but thank you.”

Tim looks at him thoughtfully.

“Was she a beta?” he asks finally.

“Who?”

“The woman from the photo.”

“She _is_ an alpha,” Armie glances at him.

“Yes, right, not dead, married,” Tim nods and frowns. “Ok. But then I don’t understand it – didn’t she take care of you at all?”

“She was my wife, not a nurse,” Armie replies curtly, having no idea why Liz is suddenly relevant.

“She is an alpha first. Protect, provide, care - that’s what we are for.”

“You’re stuck in Neolithic times, the world has progressed a bit.”

“An alpha is an alpha,” Tim says quietly.

“She did all she could, Tim. She did more than I deserved…”

“I doubt it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Armie is angry now.

“The fact that you can’t hear a compliment without flinching,” Tim looks at him. “Armie, it’s not the first…”

“I’m not a girl, I don’t need compliments.”

“Now who is stuck and in what times?” Tim sighs. “Armie, look at me – you’re precious, you’re unique and wonderful. You’re my miracle. You…”

“Look, Tim,” Armie interrupts, “I know that you want to get in my pants, and at the rate we’re going, I believe you’ll succeed eventually, but you don’t need this…” he waves at nothing. “Spare me the embellishments, ok?”

Tim frowns and picks up his cup, but doesn’t drink. Armie glances at him cautiously. Tim is thinking, it’s obvious, and Armie doesn’t want to know what he is thinking about.

What a fuck-up he got in this genetic lottery, probably…

“Ok,” Tim says after a while. “I think you somehow got the wrong idea about me. I’m no artist, Armie, I have no creative bone in my body. Just not in my blood. Our whole family – soldiers, managers, farmers, brokers. Not _one_ artist, I assure you. Even grandma Oprah, the one who knits, she is a chemist. She just worked on dyes for a textile factory for a long time and knitting became a hobby, but she is alright, she is a chemist.

“And I myself don’t know the difference between a paraphrase and an allegory. I don’t understand it, so it’s probably bullshit anyway,” Tim shrugs.

“Sound logic…”

“Yes, it is. It’s a waste of brain cells, this casuistry. But what I want to say is that for me white is white and black is black and you are precious. And that’s it,” he looks at Armie. “No embellishments. No allegories.”

Armie keep staring at the bag on the table.

“No, wait, that’s not true,” Tim says suddenly.

“I’m not precious?” Armie chuckles.

“Yes, yes, you are,” Tim nods. “I just thought… I know some of this stuff. I know euphemisms! Mom drilled it into me. We had a neighbor once and he was an idiot, a “ _fucking idiot_ ” my dad used to call him. And mom was always, no, don’t repeat that, Timmy, call him silly, that’s better. But he wasn’t just silly, I’m telling you. And he is not dead either, maybe even married, too, I haven’t seen him in years, but he is still a fucking idiot, I’m sure,” Tim finishes.

“And the point being?”

“Well, I know euphemisms, and they are bullshit, too, like allegory,” Tim laughs. “But you’re precious.”

“Let me guess, you had an F in composition?” Armie smiles.

“I had a D, a _hard won_ D, and I’m proud of it,” Tim declares. “Will you sleep with a guy who had a D in composition?”

“I think it’s possible,” Armie looks at him. “This bag smells nice.”

“It tastes good, too,” Tim winks. “Not the bag.”

“I won’t eat the bag then.”

“But you’ll sleep with me?”

“North Dakota first,” Armie smiles. “Business before pleasure.”

“Three months and one Dakota later, but we are finally getting somewhere,” Tim smiles back. “Now come here.”

And Armie does. Armie just does.

 

<> 

Next week Armie invents a huge penthouse for a crazy Argentinian tycoon on Fifth Avenue and, using this excuse, suggests that they stop meeting at El Piace for the time left until Tim’s departure. It works, Tim isn’t particularly happy, but it works. And Armie isn’t happy either, because this feeling of guilt, no matter how he tries to fight it, is still there.

Tim trusts him.

Armie lies.

Lies by omission are still betrayal.

He sits at his desk at work and thinks about the curry Tim brought, which was delicious and indeed lasted for several days, and the guilt comes back. With a vengeance.

What if he tells the truth?

Tim will stay.

But Tim can’t stay.

Tim shouldn’t.

So he won’t tell the truth.

Logical, convincing. Doesn’t help.

Why did Tim never ask him about it? He isn’t bashful about these things - if he thought about it, he would bring it up. But he doesn’t and he probably doesn’t because he can’t imagine that Armie would hide it from him.

And so back to guilt.

Why the fuck does he feel guilty at all? he asks himself. He is doing a right thing, he knows it, but it’s the way he is doing this right thing that doesn’t feel… right.

They have a relationship. No way around it, they do.  Relationship is a contract, truth is obligatory, lie has a price…

“And it will cost you about 9 million bucks,” Nick says pleasantly.

“What?” Armie looks at him aghast.

Did he say it all out loud?

Has he completely lost it?

“I offered to set that duplex on fire and dance on the coals. You agreed. The party will cost us about 9 million each,” Nick explains.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening…”

“I noticed,” Nick looks at him and smiles. “All anticipation, are you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You look as guilty as if you did,” Nick smirks. “It’s April, finally you’ll have…”

“Tim?” Armie almost jumps from his chair, seeing Tim entering his work space. “What… what are you doing here?”

It’s Wednesday, Tim leaves on Saturday, his heat starts next Wednesday. They agreed not to meet, Tim was going to be busy too, it was working. What is Tim doing here?

“I know, I know,” Tim smiles brightly and places another paper bag on his desk. "You’re busy, I won’t take more than 10 minutes. I’m busy too, actually, just passing through on my way to another place. It was convenient.”

Armie looks at the bag, then at Tim. They can spend 10 minutes without Tim noticing anything, right? There is nothing to notice now, right?

“Smells wonderful,” Nick nods towards the bag.

“Chicken Parmesan, manicotti and lasagna again, but with vegetables this time,” Tim tells Armie, then turns to Nick, who was moving closer to the bag with every dish announced. “Shoo, find your own alpha for this.”

“Now I’m honestly tempted,” Nick laughs, but moves away.

Tim pushes Armie back into the chair and, ignoring weak protests, lands on his lap, all quite nonchalantly.

“Tim, we are…”

“Hello, darling,” Tim kisses him, before he can say any more. It’s light and gentle, but Armie is so nervous that his palms begin to sweat.

“Hey, what is it?” Tim leans back and looks at him concerned. “You are feverish!” he touches Armie’s forehead.

“I’m not! I’m fine! Tim, we are in my office!”

Tim is still looking at him worriedly and keeps feeling his forehead. “I’m sitting on your lap, not on your face,” and he kisses him again. “And Rick doesn’t mind, I'm sure.”

“ _Nick_ doesn’t,” comes a reply. “And Nick probably shouldn’t be witnessing all this.”

“Oh, sorry, _Nick_. Yes, I know you are crazy busy now. Again I won’t take much time,” Tim explains and his hand grips Armie’s neck again. “How is it going by the way? The Argentinian?”

“Argentinian what?” Nick is surprised.

“We were just discussing the balcony,” Armie shoots him a look. “He wants a patio - we’ll make it on the balcony. Nick’s idea.”

“Patio is usually closed off,” Tim frowns.

“Nick’s idea,” Armie repeats. “Tim, you shouldn’t have bothered,” he nods to the bag. “I still have the risotto from last week.”

“I couldn’t leave without bringing you more. And you owe me a goodbye kiss, a good one.” Tim turns to Nick, “This I don’t want you to witness. But, I think you’re harmless, so I want you to look after him, while I’m away. I worry.”

“Away?” Nick repeats, taken off guard. “You are _leaving_?”

“Tim has a business trip, Nick. Three weeks,” Armie replies and gives him a meaningful look.

“Oh, that’s… unexpected,” Nick glances at Armie, then at Tim. “I think I’ll go now. I guess you have a lot to discuss,” he looks at Armie for the last time and leaves.

“Tim, you shouldn’t sit on my lap,” Armie whispers, when they are alone.

“Are you so worked up about this? Me sitting on your lap?” Tim touches his forehead again, then looks at him. “Are you ashamed about being seen with me?”

“No, of course not,” Armie says immediately and his hand seemingly automatically touches Tim’s face. “Why would I be ashamed?”

“I don’t look like an alpha,” Tim says quietly.

“I don’t look like an omega,” Armie tugs him closer and Tim hugs him tightly. “I’m just not used to public displays, that’s all.”

“I’ll miss you a lot, a lot, a lot,” Tim whispers. “A lot.”

“It’s only three weeks,” Armie hugs him tighter.

“Thousands of minutes.”

“You’ll be busy nailing crooks, you won’t think about me.”

“I won’t be thinking about anyone else,” Tim says and Armie feels his nose trying to burrow under his collar.

“Tim, easy.”

“Why do you have to use so much perfume. It’s so difficult to get to your scent…”

Well, because now I’m especially concerned that you’ll sniff something you aren’t supposed to, Armie thinks.

“I’ll try to use less,” he whispers.

“Alright,” Tim resurfaces, “where will you give me my goodbye kiss? A good one.”

 

<> 

They end up on the fire escape staircase again. People in this building probably never used it for any other purpose anyway.

Armie doesn’t have time to close the door behind them, when Tim is on him and pushes him to the wall forcefully, one of his hand grips Armie’s neck as usual, another grabs his hair, his knee slides between Armie’s legs and all air is gone and forgotten, because Armie doesn’t feel or smell or know anything but Tim, his tongue, his fangs, his breath on his skin, his strong hands, the will, desire and force behind this simple action.

“When I’m back,” Tim whispers, lips caressing lips, “I want you in my bed. Every night. I want you mine. I’m going crazy thinking that so many people can touch you, even accidentally. I don’t want anyone touching you. Anyone. Ever.”

He captures Armie’s lips again and his grip on Armie’s neck becomes stronger, and Armie tries to compose his thoughts, the ones that are left, tries to remember and be cautious, be prudent, strategize, plan, rationalize. Nothing works, his head is a glass ball turned upside down with a furious snowstorm raging inside. Thoughts, plans, strategies – just so many snowflakes flying chaotically and obscuring his vision.

Especially when Tim moves his leg higher and presses against his hardness…

Armie freezes.

“Yes, yes,” Tim whispers. “Give me that. This is right, darling. This is mine.” He presses harder and Armie gasps.

“Tim, stop, please,” he pleads. “Tim…”

“Shhh, it’s ok. I want you like this. Always like this for me,” he kisses Armie’s cheeks, his neck, returns to his lips, but it becomes quieter, gentler. His hand cupping Armie’s face, thumb caressing his jaw, Tim looks at him softly, “It’s ok, it’s ok. I will never hurt you. Nothing will ever hurt you again, nothing and no one. My darling, my wonderful, my beautiful darling,” he kisses Armie lightly.

“Tim…” Armie’s forehead falls on Tim’s shoulder and Tim starts stroking his head gently.

“Shhh, I’m here, I’m here. I’ll always be here. Breathe deeper, it’s me. No one else, just me. Just me.”

Armie has no idea how long they were standing like this, on those stairs, with his forehead on Tim’s shoulder, with Tim’s hand in his hair, moving gently, before he straightens up slowly and looks at him. “Tim, we shouldn’t…”

“I’ll be back in three weeks, I’ll move the whole North Dakota with me, but I’ll be back in three weeks,” Tim promises, “and we won’t need the fire escape then. We’ll do everything as slow as you want, you’ll show me and I’ll learn, I’ll learn everything your alpha needs to know to take care of you. Just wait for me. Alright?”

“Alright,” Armie mumbles.

Tim kisses him lightly and smiles, “Alright.”

Armie is still hearing his easy steps on the stairs, when the guilt and doubts return and assault him with new overwhelming force.

When Tim finds out, he will be hurt. It’s inevitable. Whatever reasons Armie can give him, there is one truth that will come through no matter what – Armie doesn’t trust him, not enough to let him be close during his most vulnerable moment.

What if he will never trust him enough?

What if he simply can’t do it?

Can’t be so open and fragile with another person?

What if he can’t move past casual flirting and kisses in café?

What if no amount of sweet words is enough to make showing his body to someone else bearable?

What if he can’t keep all the promises he so carelessly gave?

What if Tim can’t forgive him?

What if Tim doesn’t want to understand?

He thought it would be easier. There were moments when he thought it would be easier, but it’s not. It’s painful to lie, it’s impossible to tell the truth.

He stares at the empty staircase again, the steps are silent, the air chilly, aftertaste of Tim’s lips is bitter and damning.

Three weeks is not enough to erase three months, but what if it is?

 

<> 

He is looking at the city in front of him - forest of glass towers and rivers of traffic below. The Hudson is dull and heavy, with occasional streaks of silver, uncovered by scarce sun. Atlantic is limitless, horizon is a concept, sky is closer than sidewalk.

He is on top of the world, and it’s a lonely windy place, but that is precisely why he likes to come here from time to time. He should have returned to the office, but just the thought of seeing the bag of food Tim brought him turned his stomach, and so he came here, to the roof.

He is not even cold, his temperature is higher than normal already, and if he wanted to find a solution here, then he is out of luck, because all he finds is the city that simply doesn’t give a damn.

“Do you know why I like coming here?” Armie asks, hearing the steps behind.

“Because not many people do,” Nick replies.

“Exactly.”

“Well, tough, then,” Nick shrugs and stops beside him.

“Were you afraid I’d jump?”

“Not today.”

A helicopter lands on the neighboring building and the wind almost knocks them of their feet. Armie ducks, hiding behind the parapet, and Nick squats near him.

“Why?” Nick asks, when thundering noise starts to dissolve.

“I have my reasons.”

“He is in love with you, you know?”

“He is horny, I don’t know about love,” Armie gets up and looks at the gray horizon again.

“If you believed that, you wouldn’t be here, cold and miserable, feeling like shit.”

“It’s too soon, Nick. He is not ready for this.”

“It’s been three months.”

“You don’t teach people to run by throwing them into a marathon,” Armie finally looks at him.

“So you lie to them, saying that the marathon was cancelled?”

“Spare me, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about what I saw just minutes ago. This guy goes out of his way to please you and you’re…” Nick shakes his head. “Armie, honestly, I just don’t get it – the whole point of having an alpha is to make these things easier for you. Now you have an alpha and you just… What is it? Self-sabotage? Masochism?”

“He is not ready for this,” Armie repeats.

“How do you know? He never dated an omega before?”

“Maybe he did. He had a girlfriend, she could have been an omega, I didn’t ask. But even if she was… Nick, if she was an omega, then we are talking about 5’5”, 90 pounds slip of a girl. He could handle it. And look at me!

“You think it’s what, normal lovemaking? It’s half violence, half blind lust during heat. It demands strength, patience, but most of all it demands trust. Quite a lot for a first time, don’t you think?”

“Well, ok, I probably don’t know enough,” Nick concedes, “but I still think you’re making a mistake.”

“No, you don’t know anything!” Armie says angrily. “You think it’s some glorious fuckfest, like they picture it in the movies. Hell, they are now making romcoms about it – a girl goes on vacation and her heat starts unexpectedly. How amusing!”

“She finds her alpha in the end.”

“She finds something else in real life – a bunch of assholes who are only too happy, if you are horny and helpless.”

“You think Tim would take advantage of you?”

Armie closes his eyes.

“Nick, when I sleep with him… or _if_ I sleep with him, I want to say yes not because I can’t say no. I want him to want it, not because he is going nuts from my pheromones. Is it too much to ask?” Armie looks at him.

“If it happened now, it wouldn’t be his choice, it wouldn’t be mine either,” he continues. “Do you want to get fucked while drunk? When you can’t control your body? When even if you want to say stop, you can’t? When even if someone else tells you to stop, you… you can’t?

“No, no, no, I can’t put him through this. Not again. No.”

“Again?” Nick frowns.    

“Nick, it can be ugly. It can get ugly very quickly and you don’t go back from this, not really.”

“Armie, tell me one thing - are you planning to dump him?” Nick asks quietly.

“He’d be better off without me, he deserves better.”

“Fuck, so it’s masochism!”

“It’s fucking reality, Nick. I let things go. I should have thought before, I shouldn’t have… Now he is bringing me food and I’m eating it!” Armie laughs bitterly. “Bloody hell…”

“When is he leaving?”

“On Saturday.”

“Then call him, ask him to stay, let him be there in whatever capacity. Just don’t fucking lie to him,” Nick pleads. “Armie, please!”

“I don’t want him to see it, to see me like this. Not like this.”

“He’ll see it sooner or later,” Nick remarks.

“Then he’ll probably leave anyway, sooner or later.”

“Does he at least know that it’s your birthday soon?”

Armie shakes his head silently.

“Oh, man, I really don’t understand you…”

“I envy you that,” Armie replies and looks into leaden horizon.

 

<> 

He doesn’t call Tim, of course. He doesn’t say anything. He waits until the weekend and then checks the airport to find out if the plane took off. It lets him breathe a little bit freer.

His temperature continues to rise steadily. He wakes up sweaty and ravenous, goes to the kitchen and eats Tim’s food, without heating it up. By Sunday it’s all gone and he orders pizza.

Elizabeth calls. She always does, she remembers. She makes him promise her that he will go to his doctor, when it’s over, that he’ll get antidepressants for the aftermath, because it can get darker after the dawn, too.

He promises. He does it every time.

Tim calls, too, talks about the flight, about the B&B they are staying in, about the factory that looks like hell on earth, half of its documentation not digitized, so they had to go through a dark stinky room full of rat-eaten stacks of paper and now will study it page by page, going years back.

Food is bad, weather is cold, dirt is everywhere and they are wearing rubber boots. And he misses him already, he misses him really bad.

Armie mumbles something from time to time, hoping he sounds normal, hoping he doesn’t answer the previous question. Tim says that he seems tired, that he should rest, that he will call again next day.

“Take care of yourself, darling,” Tim says.

Armie replies something, probably _yes_ , probably _of course_ , but all he wants is to throw up and, as soon as the call is finished, he does.

He knows he won’t be able to maintain this for long, so on Tuesday he tells Tim that he caught something after all, and he would stay home and rest.

Please, don’t call, I might be sleeping. I’ll answer the texts, I promise.

Tim is worried, he offers to call his mom, she’ll come by. She can help. Armie refuses, it takes another five minutes to convince Tim that all he needs is a little quiet and a cup of tea. He’ll be fine.

Don’t call.

I’ll answer your texts. I promise.

His body doesn’t wait for Wednesday. Night falls and darkness descends on Tuesday evening. He gets half hard, his body is burning, dull moaning pain slightly above his groin, deep inside, scratch or not, you won’t reach it.

He takes a cold shower, tries to masturbate, but it’s useless, it’s dry. Icy water helps to calm down a bit, but only on the surface, inside the volcano is waking up.

He forbids himself to look at the entrance door, even to look there. With the rest of the will left him, he tells himself to forget that it even exists.

No exit.

There is no exit.

Endure.

Three-four days - you can.

You did it before.

Don’t think about going out there and looking for someone who could give you relief. Not even someone, anyone. Anyone who doesn’t care that you don’t really want it, that it’s only your body.

It’s your body, but not your choice.

He doesn’t look at the door. He goes slowly from the bathroom to the bedroom. Cold shower, wrap yourself in the towel, get to the bed, catch a couple of hours of sleep.

Go while you can, on the third day you’ll crawl.

He stops checking the time of day. He hears the phone buzzing from time to time, sees Tim’s name and replies _I’m fine_ , without reading the text.

It doesn’t stop. They call it waves and they are right. It comes as waves, and half the time, he isn’t sure he’ll get to the surface in time. He walks to and fro, his previous wet steps didn’t have time to dry when he is going back.

His head on fire, his body shivering, he tries to reach the bedroom and this time simply can’t, so he gets down on his hands and knees and looks at the floor and gradually lies down right there, in the middle of the hallway.

The tears come. Silent, useless, unstoppable.

He wants it to stop. All of it.

If there was someone listening, he would beg. But he doesn’t think there is anyone anywhere. He never believed in heaven and he couldn’t find North Dakota on the map now.

There is only fatigue, his burning body and this dull mocking pain inside, whispering gently and persistently – reproduce, reproduce, reproduce.

Oh, you can’t, you loser…

Oh, you can’t…

All his art albums and rows of books look at him lying there on the floor – and they are all useless too, they are all gibberish, compared with this cruel and trivial reality. What can they do? What is theory against nature? What can beauty, purity, words and ideas do, faced with this degrading fact?

Reproduce!

Oh, you can’t…

He hates his genes, but they don’t deign to return it. They don’t care about feelings and circumstances and choices, they are stubborn, they have the will to wage this war of attrition year after year and they won’t stop.

Assault after assault, barrage after barrage.

Something that doesn’t kill you will return to try again.

This something sharpened its teeth over millennia and it can cut through diamonds and hearts, it doesn’t give a damn.

Reproduce!

His genes, aggressive selfish bastards.

Let’s break a butterfly upon a wheel, they say and smile. Let’s set these bright wings fluttering. Let’s see whose will is stronger.

But he won’t go to that door, he won’t open it, he won’t offer his body to the first stranger, he won’t seek relief. No, he can fight too, maybe lying down and swallowing tears, but he can fight, too.

Trench war is grueling and wasteful, but every inch you don’t give up is an inch that enemy can’t take. And they are fucking worth it, every one of those bloody inches.

And he won’t pick up the phone and call, because if love exists, it’s not about two pieces of meat coming together and exchanging fluids. It’s about choice, it’s about giving away your everything, because there is nothing you want more. You, not your cells and tissues.

He wakes up still on the floor and those books are still there, silent impartial witnesses. It’s the third day he feels, measuring his exhaustion. The dawn is near. Every inch counts.

He picks himself up slowly and goes back to the bathroom. The phone screen lights up on the bedstand, but he doesn’t see it.

He’ll see it later. He’ll reply _I’m fine_.

He’ll try to mean it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you.


	7. Chapter 7

He returns to the office on Monday. He could wait a couple days more, Gina usually gives him ten weekdays in this case, but he couldn’t stand his apartment any longer. He felt even more animalistic by the end – a wild creature trapped in a luxurious cage, his gray and beige interior, lovingly pieced together over time, suffocating him now, pressing down.

He realizes that people are surprised – no one probably expected him to return with haunted eyes and drooping shoulders. The two other omegas in the studio are married and they are usually beaming after their heat leaves, almost vibrating with energy and joy.

But no one asks anything. Nick pats him on the back and informs him about the progress on the duplex – carp pond is leaking, they are trying to find a better insulation material, clients are fine, though, they are ready to wait. They are building their home, they don’t need to rush.

Armie listens and nods, absorbs the information without really caring. He visited his doctor earlier and she gave him the pills, as usual. She can’t give him suppressants that would really help, but she is very obliging with a fake solution.

He drinks it. Two pills a day.

On the second day you are no longer tempted to dawn them all at once, it means they are working. You calm down. Not that you really want to live, but killing yourself start to seem pointless too.

They are good pills.

A shot straight into the brain. You can miss with a Colt, but with these things even trembling hands aren’t a problem.

They deliver.

Armie listens and nods and understands.

Carp pond is leaking.

Armie nods.

Tim calls again. He thinks Armie still sounds tired, that he should have stayed home longer, but he agrees that when you love your job, it helps you to get better. The weather in Dakota is still bad by Tim’s standards - frosty in the morning, windy during the day.

Meth kitchen turned out to be a mother lode, so FBI and EPA had themselves a little party with psychedelic overtones. There was shooting, Tim reports. Feds came loaded for bear and decided to impress the ecologists.

Wild life.

Just wild.

Tim disapproves – improper treatment of the evidence, plus accountants weren’t even invited.

Illegal and unfair. Infuriating combination.

Armie nods, then realizes that Tim can’t see him and says that yes, very unfair. Accountants deserve better.

“I hope you’ll feel a little better tomorrow,” Tim says. “I miss you.”

“I will try,” Armie replies.

Tim waits a little more, then hangs up.

Armie does try and next time produces a joke, though it doesn’t seem to work, because Tim later says that Armie is strange and asks what is going on.

“What is wrong, darling?”

“Nothing!” Armie barks. “Nothing is wrong. I’m sorry I can’t cheer you up on command. My apologies.”

Nick doesn’t hear it all, but if Nick did, he would probably ask the same thing that Armie can’t help asking himself – why?

Why do you have to be an asshole?

Tim is a good person, Tim is such a good person that it turns you inside out to be a dick to him. Then why?

Ah, because when you’re desperate, lonely and tired, it’s easier to be a dick, his mind supplies an answer.

How disgustingly human we are, he thinks, how disappointingly human - always in search for ready solutions and discovering early on that it’s much easier to hurt someone than to love him.

Love demands guts, cruelty is duty free.

Our original sin is such a cliché.

It’s easier to destroy relationships than to build them. It’s so temptingly easy.

He thinks about it again while reading the news about another politician caught with a hooker in Vegas. 37, bright, passionate, new party hopeful, with a wife and two kids.

And a hooker in Vegas.

Why?

Well, because it’s easier to pay.

He needs to make an effort, Armie decides. He needs to get himself together and stop with this childish behavior. Tim has no idea, Tim doesn’t understand and he is not to blame. He doesn’t deserve it.

Then Armie thinks about the day when Tim finds out, when it will be necessary to talk, to apologize, to explain, to open another can of worms that he has no desire to open.

Apologize, explain – to everyone, to Nick, to Gina, to those clients with the pond.

Always, always, always.

And yes, of course, he created this whole mess himself, he himself dug up the hole that becomes deeper and deeper with every passing day, so that sun seems further and further away, so that Tim’s silences on the phone are longer and longer.

Yes, he did it himself, but it is easier to blame someone else.

 

<> 

It’s May 2. Tim returns on the 8th.

His doctor calls. She needs to see him. She’ll explain when they meet.

The doctor will probably say that it’s cancer, she is sorry.

He is sorry, too. Or is he?

Yes, he is, the pills are working. He is cheerful enough to get upset.

Gina bought him a new tie. Gainsboro gray.

Nick brought a bottle of old whiskey.

Liz gave a bell.

It’s May 2. It’s his birthday.

Tim returns on the 8th.

Tim calls every two days now.

Is it important?

Yes, it should be. Yes, it was.

I’m fine, he thinks.

I’m absolutely fine.

I’m losing him, but I’m fine.

Just tired.

I’m so tired of losing.

 

<> 

Suave waves caress the shore. Horizon is pink and blue and endless. The air must be soft and salty, the breeze gentle. You can’t paint the sounds, but they would be soft too there.

It’s a very nice picture in his doctor’s office. Cheap but positive. We don’t want to upset our patients. If it’s cancer, look at the bright side – cholera can kill you within hours, here you have time for a cruise.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

Steal more.

“How are you feeling?” doctor Marsten asks him gently.

“I’m fine,” Armie nods and looks again at the picture. “What happened? Something wrong with my tests?”

His doctor is thoughtful. He likes her, she usually manages to be cheerful without being obnoxious, but now she is silent and frowning and so it’s probably even worse than he thought.

You start wishing for cancer, you get some flesh eating bug. Life is always one step ahead with its surprises.

“How long have we known each other, Armie?” Julia asks finally. “Six years now. Right?”

“Just about.”

She nods. “I don’t know about you, but I consider you a friend. I want to think about all my patients as friends, though we are actually discouraged from doing so. It’s unprofessional.” She shrugs. “Nevertheless I consider you a friend.”

“Am I dying?” he asks more out of curiosity than fear.

She looks at him and frowns. He thinks it’s a binary question, not much room for maneuver, but she takes her time.

“I will tell you something,” she starts, “and I want you to hear it as coming from your doctor and your friend, not some nosy neighbor who ambushed you in the lobby and disperses cheap wisdoms, ok?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Armie, people can die from loneliness.” She looks him in the eyes. “And they do. Every day. It affects your immune system, your heart, your cognitive abilities, your memory.

“But in your case, being an omega, it is even worse. You might say that you’re simply not built to be alone. Unfulfilled heats take a heavy toll on your body. It is a stress that all your organs feel. And with every new one, your organism becomes a little more tired, a little more weak. You might not feel all the effects now, but they keep piling up and it will be worse. In the end it is deadly.”

“So what do you recommend?” Armie slumps back in the chair. “A soulmate? Or just a fuckbuddy will do?”

Doc lowers her eyes.

I apologize, Armie thinks. I am a dick, you don’t deserve it, I know. Fuck.

“Don’t you think it’s possible to find both in one person?” she asks, before he can say anything.

“Maybe, maybe…” he sighs. “I’m sorry, I still don’t quite understand why I’m here.”

He looks again at the picture – no mast has appeared on the horizon. It’s pink and blue and empty.

If it’s a view from a desert island, then this shore means death to the artist.

Take it down, Dr. Marsten, some patients might get upset.

“You know, I hate Christmas,” Julia says suddenly. “Well, ok, I don’t hate it, but…” she smiles. “I was ER nurse for several years in the beginning. It’s difficult to like any holidays after what you see there on such occasions.”

She is looking at him waiting for something, so he nods, though he has no idea where she is going with that.

“I remember there was a boy,” she continues, “a young boy, 16-17, something like that. He was… He had four bullets in his body, lacerations, contusions, he was a breathing wound. No one thought he had a chance. And he was conscious, you know? He heard it all. And I remember standing there, by his side, while the operating room was being prepared and I looked at him and I saw…” she pauses. “There was a moment when he started to let go, I saw it in his eyes. I just saw. And I told him not to give up. I had nothing else to give him at the moment, just that. But I told him not to give up. _Please_ , _please_ don’t give up.

“And he survived. Not because of me, of course. I was just some silly girl blubbering in his ear, but I think he heard and I think he made a decision. He made a decision and he survived.

“Do you understand?” she looks at Armie again.

“Is it so horrible that you can’t just tell it to me?” he asks impatiently. “What is it?”

“Ok…” she sighs, and this sad ok makes him feel even worse, makes him want to apologize again and makes him angry too.

It’s easy to be angry, doesn’t take much effort these days.

Julia opens a file, retrieves a document and places it on the table in front of him.

“Your application was approved. They mailed it the other day.”

Armie looks at the official seal, at the column of signatures, one after the other, - endocrinologists, cardiologists, urologists, psychologists.

“A Magdalene?” he whispers.

“Yes. Armie, please look at me,” Julia says urgently and waits for him to tear his eyes away from the piece of paper on the table that he can’t make himself touch.

“Please don’t…” she looks at him pleadingly. “Damn, I can’t even say it without being sued now!” She thinks for a second, “Look, I have a son, you know it, right?” Armie nods dumbly. “He is an omega, he is the only omega boy in his class. And it’s challenging, he is 14, he is going through his first heats. I… I’m very worried, I love him to pieces, obviously, and I’m very worried. But if he was right now in front of me, being your age, I would say to him… I would _beg_ him not to do it. Do you understand? Armie?”

Tim, he thinks. He can’t think about anything else for some reason.

Tim, Tim, Tim…

“Will my scent change?” he asks quietly.

“Your scent?” Julia frowns. “Well, the inner workings of your body will be different, so, yes, it will. You won’t stink, if you’re worried about that, and you’ll still be identifiable as omega, but to people who know you closely… they will probably notice the change, yes.

“But scent is a minor thing. This will affect your sex drive, your hormonal balance and your mental health. Given that your sperm count is low as is usual with omegas, it’s very unlikely that you’ll be able to have children with a woman. This procedure is irrevocable. I ask you, I beg you to consider it very carefully.”

“I applied almost a year ago…” he says distractedly.

“There were cases where insurance companies were sued for delays, so now they are rushing it. As soon as you turn 35, you are free to use it.”

“I am,” he smiles sadly.

“What?”

“I am 35. Today.”

“Oh, Armie…”

“Is it all?”

“Armie, please, if you have any more questions and…”

“I need to think. On my own. Is it all or did you want to tell me something else?”

“Don’t give up,” she repeats, but he is not that boy she remembers so fondly, and he has no clue what to do with this advice.

 

<> 

Deep in the green heart of Manhattan, he stands by the lake, cherry trees in full bloom like frozen explosions all around him and spring sun dancing on the water. He hears several languages spoken and can’t understand which one is English. He can’t tell the difference between the sky and the lake, he can’t tell the difference between free and alone. Burning him to the heart, in his inner pocket is the best possible gift he could receive for his birthday, a year ago.

His ticket to freedom.

A ticket bought with someone’s life.

To give you a smile, gods first demand a sacrifice.

Legislative gods, too.

Magdalene Appelbaum.

40 years old, divorced, single, childless omega. Another butterfly whose cries no one wanted to hear.

She had her heat and she probably fought it, but in the end she wasn’t strong enough to lie down and weep, so she opened the door and dove into the night. No one knows what exactly happened, but whatever it was, it was enough for her to return two days later, scribble a brief note and step out of her window on the 32nd floor.

Not all butterflies can flutter.

Sometimes they just fall.

She wasn’t the first. She wasn’t the worst. But what she had - what others like her didn’t - was the father, two times Senator from Massachusetts. The father who read her “I can’t anymore…” and decided to do something finally.

With the Congress 86% alphas in both houses and only one omega, Representative of Rhode Island, population 20 people and three maples, Magdalene Bill still passed – Papa Appelbaum knew whose hands to shake and whose to break when necessary – passed and arrived on the President’s desk, where, after some media huffing and puffing, it was signed.

Magdalene Appelbaum who couldn’t find piece herself brought it to other people - omegas after 35 were allowed to apply for hysterectomy.

Get to 35, prove that you’re sane, prove that there is nothing you want more - and you can be free.

You can be free.

You can choose.

You can stop it.

So he should be happy now, genuinely happy, but he doesn’t know what he feels. He’s wanted it since he heard the news, at first as a gift to Liz, a chance for them both to have a normal life. Just normal, without the agony. But when Liz left it became more than a gesture, it was his salvation now, his way out.

He couldn’t wait until 35, he started the application process as soon as possible, went through all the doctors they required, got all the necessary signatures and then…

…and then Tim appeared out of nowhere.

Tim, he thinks again, Tim…

It is his birthday and he was given the only thing he really wanted – a choice.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

 

<> 

Nick gives him the keys to the next apartment and he takes it without asking anything, he takes the accompanying notes, without bothering to read them.

Everyone walks on eggshells around him.

He knows. He can’t help it. He can’t help them.

He doesn’t know if he can help himself.

The papers are still in his inner pocket. He took it out yesterday and sat in the kitchen, staring at the stamps of approval and official letterhead. Sitting at the same table where they drank wine with Tim, where Tim said you’re my once in a lifetime, where Tim said it’s never late.

Tim hasn’t called for two days.

Is it a sign, too?

Are the stars rearranging themselves and form another destiny? Is it all a hint?

He doesn’t know anything about astrology, but he can read the paper and it says – you can stop it, you can choose. Do you want to?

Now, climbing up the stairs to the apartment, he keeps asking himself this. He keeps feeling the document folded inside his pocket.

Approved times seven.

Seven signatures to end the suffering. Seven steps to freedom.

It’s only when he opens the door and gets inside that something makes him pay attention to his surroundings. He doesn’t understand it at first and then, suddenly, like waking up from a sharp sound, he realizes that he’s been here before, in this apartment. He was working on it, what, two-three years ago.

He goes from one empty room to another and fills the blank walls with paintings and sconces he helped to put there. They are all gone now. The walls are a void. This whole apartment is.

He tries to remember the clients, but it’s difficult, because they are usually Nick’s concern. And at the same time, he knows them, he knows them so intimately, it might seem creepy. He knows what beds they sleep on, what tables they eat their dinners from, what wallpaper they choose for their nurseries. He knows what kind of home they want, what kind of dreams they hide behind chandeliers and curtains.

He created this home and now this home is empty, after two, maybe three years.

He enters the living room and finally remembers. He can’t recall her face, but he saw her, he is sure, the woman who was worried about the window sill over there. She loved to read, she wanted it to be warm, she asked constantly about drafts.

She was meticulous, she was attentive, she was building her castle. What happened? Where is she now?

He glances through Nick’s notes and reads _blue, chrome, glass, dark wood._ Nick said… What did he say? Something about the husband… Ah, yes, the husband got the apartment.

Mystery solved.

The writing was on the wall.

They are divorced. He got the apartment and he wants it all destroyed, all that she built so carefully and lovingly. He wants it erased. He is doing a good job.

Armie looks around again and behind the emptiness sees the love, slowly and patiently strangled.

This is how it ends, really. Details don’t matter, details  are private and banal. She cheated or he got bored, constant stream of conversation started to dry up, yesterday’s jokes turned into snipes, things you forgave so easily in the beginning became annoying, became insulting.

This man, this woman – they were extraordinary, they became anything but and probably didn’t even notice it, until the movers appeared at the door.

Love is dead, and Armie was commissioned to build a new castle over the graveyard.

Will it be haunted?

Probably.

The way his own apartment was echoing with Liz’s laugh, long after she left it for another castle. He hasn’t heard it since February, the coldest month. New ghosts moved in since then.

If I lose you, he thinks now, will you haunt me too, Tim?

Will I haunt you?

Will it be me or my scent?

What is the difference?

Is there any?

Yes, he answers silently, yes, there is. The difference is that if we’d met at your mother’s place one February later, you would have said something polite and indifferent and dismissed me before the sentence was over. You would’ve said _nice to meet you, Mr. Hammer_ , only to forget me instantly and effortlessly, you would’ve gone on your way, having no idea that this very second, in front of you stood your 10-50, your “miracle”.

But am I? Am I really?

One February later you wouldn’t have smelt anything, and if you didn’t… If you didn’t, would you have felt anything?

No. No, you wouldn’t have.

Take one part out of the equation and what is left? What miracle?

So, will you still want me, if this part is missing? And more importantly, will you be able to love me, if you don’t?

Is anyone?

He notices something in the corner of the window sill. A small sugar bowl in the form of white rose, unnoticed and forgotten here. She loved to read, this woman, she used to drink coffee and think about her husband sitting at this window. Two or three years ago.

He opens the rose and there is still sugar there, hard as stone and white as arsenic, but still sweet like memories of happiness and hope.

 

<> 

Armie is still so consumed by his recent thoughts, that he almost passes him on his way back without noticing. It takes him a second to convince himself that he is not mistaken.

It’s May 4, what is he doing here?

“Tim?” Armie comes closer and can’t say anything else, because Tim turns and looks at him and…

“Gods, Tim, what happened?” Armie stares at dark shadows under Tim’s eyes, hollowed cheeks, skin gray from exhaustion. If there is a time to say that someone looks like hell, then this is it. Tim does.

Tim comes up slowly and wraps his arms around Armie, holding him tighter and tighter with every second.

“What is it? What is it?” Armie strokes his back, and then squeezes him too, presses him flush to his own body. So warm and fragile, so small he seems now, his alpha.

“Tim, what is wrong? What happened to you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tim whispers. “I was so scared. I’m still scared, but… I ran to the airport, I ran from the airport and then I… I came here and… I was just standing here, you know… I just couldn’t come up, just couldn’t… I’m sorry. I’m no alpha, I’m such a bad alpha, I’m sorry, darling.” He sniffs.

“Tim, what are you talking about? Please, you’re scaring me too. What happened?”

“I’m so, so sorry… I thought you were cheating…” Tim looks at him. “I thought your wife… I thought your wife returned… I’m such an idiot. I’m so sorry…”

“My wife?” Armie repeats dumbly. “Tim, you don’t make any sense…”

“I’ve been going crazy with worry up there – I tried to talk to Nick, I tried Gina. And everyone was – _oh, he is fine_. And I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck thousands of miles away and you were lying and everyone was covering for you. And I didn’t understand why,” Tim hugs him again.

“My wife didn’t return,” Armie sighs. “She is not my wife and she didn’t return…”

“I know. I called her.”

“What?” Armie steps back.

“I found her,” Tim nods. “I asked a friend to go through our archives and I found her. And I called her. I invented some bullshit about database crash and how we needed to update it and blah-blah-blah,” he shrugs. “She was very nice, very obliging – no plans to return, she is blissfully happy there, they are buying a house in Sussex or Essex or whatever sex. She is pregnant, by the way.”

“You had no right to call Liz…” Armie says quietly.

“I had no _need_ to call her, rather. And I would prefer if it was that, you know? I can deal with another alpha, I understand it, but… When were you going to tell me?”

Tim looks at him again with so much sadness that Armie forgets his nascent anger and starts worrying again.

“Tell you what?”

“Please don’t say you’re fine. I hate this word now. Tell me the truth. I came as soon as I could.”

“Tim, I honestly don’t understand…”

“Armie, my sister works in the Department of Healthcare. She called me yesterday, because she saw some documents and… and your name was there,” Tim swallows.

“You have a sister?”

“Yes, I have a sister. Armie, whatever it is, just please tell me. I don’t know if I can help… I… Please, whatever it is…”

“Tim, look, it’s… What did she tell you exactly?”

“She couldn’t tell anything, it’s private. She just saw your name, but it was in connection to their discretionary spending, special projects…

“I’m not mad, I understand that you didn’t want to tell me on the phone. I came as soon as she told me. I was just so scared for you. I’m still so scared for you. I called you. You probably don’t remember, you were saying you were fine. Constantly. Just that - _fine, fine, fine._ ” Tim pauses. _“_ Was it anesthesia?”

Oh, gods, gods, gods…

What do they say? Sow the wind…

“Tim, it’s not what you think…”

“You have no idea what I thought. It’s a five-hour flight. I went from appendicitis to Ebola. Special funding…” Tim looks at him fearfully. “Is it Ebola?”

“It’s madness…”

“Madness?” Tim repeats. “You mean it’s something mental? Then why were you under anesthesia?”

“I wasn’t, Tim. Nothing happened. I promise, I’m not sick.”

“Armie, you can tell me the truth. You must.”

“Yes, I know. What a mess…” Armie sighs. “Tim, I’m not sick. I swear to you, I’m not sick.”

“Then what is it?” Tim takes his hand. “Liposuction?”

“Liposuction?” Armie doesn’t know if he has to be offended now.

I missed you, Tim, is what he thinks. I had no idea how much.

“You silly, silly thing, you don’t need it,” Tim smiles. “Oh, hell, I almost went insane. I ran to the airport, I ran from the…” He doesn’t finish and hugs Armie again. “You silly, silly…”

“Tim, my heat is in April,” Armie says tiredly. “When you called, it was probably that. I was half delirious, but… I wasn’t in the hospital, nothing happened. It’s the truth. I swear.”

“Your heat was in April?” Tim whispers.

Armie nods.

“Your heat was in April,” Tim mumbles and kisses his neck. “It was just your heat…”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m just tired. But I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Gods, you’re fine… fine… I hate this word.”

“Yes, fine.”

“Fine…” suddenly Tim stops, takes a step back and looks at him. “What do you mean your heat was in April? _This_ April?”

“Yes…”

“I don’t understand…” Tim frowns

“Tim, let’s go somewhere and talk calmly. I’m tired, I don’t…”

“You’re tired?” Tim cries. “I haven’t slept for 30 hours, I ran to the airport, I ran from… I’ve never been this scared in my life - and you’re tired?! Armie!”

“I never… Let’s talk.”

“Talk then! Start with why you had your heat and your alpha is the last one to find out!”

“Don’t shout, please,” Armie looks around. They are still on the sidewalk by the entrance to his office building.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tim asks angrily.

“Tim, you don’t teach people to run by throwing them into a marathon.”

“Speak English!”

“I didn’t want to start with… Heat is not about intimacy, it’s about… I didn’t want to start from that. Let’s go…”

“You were suffering! I should have been there, with you. I could have helped you!”

“No, you couldn’t,” Armie looks at him sadly.

“And my sister?”

“What could your sister do?”

“What did she see? What do you have? You have _something_! Ok, Armie, forget about the rest, we’ll talk about it later – tell me what the hell it is!”

“I’m not sick.”

“Armie, look at me,” Tim comes closer, “I have no idea why you lied to me about your heat, I suspect there is some convoluted logic behind it that I won’t be able to comprehend, even if I try, but the longer you don’t tell me what is wrong with you the scarier it becomes in my head. Armie, please, the only thing that is important to me is you, nothing else. What is it?”

How did it become this? Armie asks himself. How did we end up here? Screaming in the street?

How innocent they seemed at the beginning, your little lies, your small silences, those little seeds that were tossed around carelessly and now grew into a tree with fruits so poisonous.

“Do you know about Magdalene Bill?” Armie asks and avoids his eyes.

“Um, yes,” Tim frowns, “it was about voluntary sterilization for omegas, right?”

“Right.”

“It’s for old and single people, what does it have to do with you?”

“It’s for people who want their heats to stop.”

“They are usually old or single. Who else would want it?”

“I do,” Armie says barely audibly.

“You? You’re not single.”

“Tim, you don’t understand. I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t want it. I never did. I don’t want to go through heats. You have no idea what it’s like. I want it to stop,” Armie says quickly, stumbling over his own words. “And then, if I go through this operation, my scent will change, you won’t be tied to me, you’ll be able to choose too, you’ll be able… You won’t feel all this, you can… you can be free. Do you understand?”

“No, not a fucking thing… I can be free to do _what_?”

“To leave.”

“To leave?” Tim looks at him incredulously. “So you want to cut up yourself as a favor to me? Armie, listen to yourself! You sound insane!”

“I don’t want to cut up… I want to… I want to be normal, Tim.”

“Normal? You _are_ normal!”

“You just don’t get it…” Armie shakes his head.

It does sound insane now. It didn’t before. It seemed so reasonable and simple. He wants to explain it all to Tim, he wants Tim to see it through his eyes. Even if Tim hates it, he might be able to understand it.

Only how, how to find the right words? How to show him what he means? If Tim was with him during heat, Tim would get it. He wouldn’t scoff. He would see…

“No, I think I do get it. Finally,” Tim says. “Only how could I miss all this? Why didn’t I see it? And you… You want to talk so much – how could you talk for a whole month about carpets and drapes and never ever mention any of this? How can I take care of you, if I don’t even know your pain?”

“It’s not your job to take care of me.”

“Right, of course, because you’ll tweak your scent a bit and we’re fine, I’ll just go away whistling. No muss, no fuss. Like nothing ever happened.”

“I’m sorry, Tim, I know it looks horrible, I see… I never wanted to… It wasn’t meant to hurt you…”

“When were you going to tell me about all this? If I returned on the 8th what would I have found? You on the operating table?” Tim asks furiously.

Armie looks down.

“Do you have any medical necessity to do it?”

“Strictly speaking…”

“No, you don’t!”

“I want my heats to stop…”

“No, no, no,” Tim shakes his head. “I call bullshit, because it is. It has nothing to do with heats or anything. Nothing! You can try to justify it that way, but it’s not that. You probably think that it’s some magic solution, that it will give you this normality you so want. But it won’t. It won’t, because you’re normal, heats are perfectly normal for you and because the problem is something that no scalpel will make better. The problem is that you can’t stand yourself.  

“Look at me,” Tim points to himself, “do you think I haven’t been through it, too? I have! I had the same high school hell, as any kid who doesn’t fit. Our family friends still call me Little Timmy and think it’s fucking cute. My boss calls me a pixie behind my back. And right now I want to pick you up in my arms and carry you away and I can’t. And I will never, never be able to do it, because… well… So I know a thing or two about your problem.

“Armie, you’re wonderful, you’re lovable and you make me happy. But I can say it a thousand times, I can shout and cry and beg and ask and explain and whatever the hell else and you won’t listen. You talk, talk, talk, but you never listen, because it’s easier that way, because you’re so used to your depression, - and that’s what it is – you got so used to it that you became comfortable, you wrapped it around yourself like a blanket, snug as a bug, nothing gets through, nothing that contradicts your version of reality.

“You didn’t want to hurt me? You fucking did. I crossed half the country, I might lose my job, I was going crazy with worry and you could save me from all this by being honest, and you didn’t. You _chose_ not to. And I think you chose not to because you were counting on exactly this outcome – that I will come back, have enough and dump you. Then you can say _oh, he doesn’t want me? But of course, no one does! Of course!_ And back to your cocoon, where it’s miserable, but safe.

“Look at me. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I’m sorry, Tim,” Armie closes his eyes.

“Fuck your sorries!” Tim cries.

Sow your seeds, now harvest your fruits. You have a fucking orchard here and it’s deadly, they kill even the wind those snake-like branches, they kill even the spring.

“I understand,” he says quietly.

He wants to say sorry again, but, really, what’s the point?

What’s the point now?

“That’s it? I’m leaving you and that’s it?” Tim stares at him incredulously.

“You said it all, I have nothing to add,” Armie shrugs.

“No, this is bloody embarrassing,” Tim rolls his eyes. “I have no idea what else to do – kisses don’t help, slaps don’t. Let’s up the voltage, I guess.”

“What are you doing? What are…” Armie blinks not able to believe what he sees.

“Marry me,” Tim says, getting on one knee. “Now, today. You don’t need anything added or removed, you need me. Marry me.”

“Tim, get up,” Armie mumbles, still shocked.

“Come on. I’m getting cold here.”

“Tim, please…”

“I’m done, Armie. We were going slow and straight to hell, it turned out. And it’s because I’ve been listening to you, to my mom, to any Dick and Harry who have no idea what they are talking about, when grandpa Gui was right all along. Marry me,” Tim looks at him and sounds completely serious.

“Tim, please get up,” Armie swallows.

“Armie, wake up, wake the fuck up, I can make you happy. I will do everything to make you happy, if you let me. Marry me.”

“No, Tim, no.”

“No?” Tim repeats and then nods.

“Tim…”

“Ok, then,” he gets up, brushes off the dirt from his jeans, glances at Armie one more time, turns around and just… walks away.

No hurry, no rush, he just walks away. Just like that.

“Tim, please…” Armie tries and gets no result, which is understandable because he has no idea what result he wants to achieve.

Tim doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around. It’s unlikely that he heard him.

He walks away.

It takes Armie some time to start moving too.

“Tim, marriage isn’t a solution,” Armie says when he catches up. “We’re not ready for this. We barely know each other. We’ve been on one date. Let’s try to figure it out. I was wrong, I was terribly wrong and you’re right. I know you’re right.”

No reaction.

“Tim, I don’t want to lose you!” Armie says loudly.

Tim stops, Armie stops too.

“Marry me,” Tim says.

“Tim, no.”

Tim starts walking again.

No follow-up questions, no nothing.

Armie looks after him, opens his mouth, closes it, starts walking too.

They pass one block. Tim doesn’t turn around.

“You passed the subway,” Armie remarks, following him two steps behind.

“I know.”

“I won’t marry you.”

“I heard.”

“Tim, be reasonable.”

“Doesn’t work with you.”

“Why would you want to marry me?”

“I love you.”

Armie stops dead, Tim continues walking.

“You can’t! You can’t love me!” Armie exclaims, shocked again.

“Wake up!” comes the reply.

“Tim, it’s only my scent. You’re infatuated. It’s not love.”

No reaction.

“You can find someone better,” Armie says, again from two steps behind.

“Saner.”

“You’re young.”

“You too.”

“We can date.”

“We can.”

“Will you go on a date with me?” Armie smiles.

“No.”

Armie’s smile drops.

“Tim, please stop!”

“What for?”

“Let’s negotiate.”

Tim makes another three steps and stops.

“I promise I won’t lie to you ever again,” Armie comes up to him. “I won’t hide things from you, I will be honest. You’re right about a lot of things, and I will… I will make an effort. I promise. I want to make it work. I do,” he looks at Tim tentatively.

“Marry me.”

“That’s not a negotiation!” Armie cries.

“Marry me or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else we are wasting time.”

“No, Tim, marriage is…”

Tim turns around and starts walking away again.

What the fuck is this? Armie thinks and follows.

What the…

“This is ridiculous. I won’t chase you forever!” he threatens.

“It’s been three blocks only.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then stop.”

Armie does.

They were passing a hotel, it so happens, and it gives him an idea.

“I’ll sleep with you!” he cries at Tim’s back.

Tim continues walking

“Today! I’ll sleep with you today! Did you hear?”

“That’s the spirit!” comes the reply. Not from Tim – from the doorman.

“Fucking hell…” Armie swears and starts walking again.

“Tim,” he catches up again, “I’ve been married, it’s not what you think. It’s very mundane. You’ll get bored.”

“Sex will help.”

“It won’t. You’ll get bored of it, too.”

“Never happened before.”

“Because you’ve never been married before!” Armie scoffs.

“We’ll spice it up, internet is vast.”

Tim continues walking. Armie continues searching for arguments.

“I think income tax is unconstitutional!” he utters, surprising even himself.

Tim turns so fast, Armie has no time to react and walks straight into him.

“Unconstitutional and… and immoral…” he finishes lamely.

“You’re an artist, what do you know about it?”

“I’m not an artist.”

“You can draw,” Tim looks at him accusingly.

“Yes…”

“Then you’re an artist. Leave serious matters to serious people.” Tim turns around and starts walking again.

Armie sighs.

Armie adjusts his tie.

Armie starts following.

“Ok, Tim, the real truth is that I’m fine alone. I’m good at it. I _want_ to be alone.”

“Bullshit. No one does.”

“I do.”

“You walked five blocks to tell me _that_?”

Armie stops.

“I didn’t… I wanted…” he thinks some more and moves again. “Look, I like my life. I _loved_ it, before you. It was quiet and peaceful. It had direction. I had it all figured out. I had plans,” he stops and frowns. “Then you appear out of nowhere, turn it all upside down with your dates and lasagnas and… and now… Marry you? I don’t want to marry you! I’m fine without you! I’ve been fine and I will be fine! Perfectly fine! You hear me?” he cries and waits for reaction.

There is a reaction – Tim gives him the finger, doesn’t bother to look back even.

“Best you can do?” Armie scoffs.

Second finger comes up.

Armie hasn’t been addressed this way since high school. He adjusts his hat, he adjusts his tie. He huffs.

Tim continues walking, until he reaches the intersection and stops at the red light.

There is a countdown clock. 15 seconds and the light will turn green. 15 seconds and Tim will be gone. Well, he won’t be, really, but it starts looking that way.

Armie looks at the countdown clock. The numbers change so rapidly.

This is madness, Armie thinks. This is unthinkable.

What am I doing?

What the hell…

“Fuck, alright,” he whispers.

The clock is still red, Tim is still here.

“Alright!” he says louder.

Nothing.

“Alright, I will marry you!” he yells.

Several people turn and look at him. Tim doesn’t.

The light turns green.

Cars stop.

People move.

Armie closes his eyes.

When he looks again, he sees Tim still standing at the crosswalk. Armie’s heart stops for a second, then starts beating slowly and heavily.

Faster, when Tim turns around.  

Madly, when Tim starts walking back.

“Alright?” Tim stops in front of him.

“Alright,” Armie croaks, then clears his voice. “For a month. As an apology.”

“A decade!”

“Three months and that’s it.”

“Five years!”

“Five months!”

“A year and not a day less!” Tim says firmly.

“A year and not a day more!” Armie promises.

“Alright,” Tim nods.

“Alright,” Armie nods.

“Ok, let’s go,” Tim takes his hand and pulls.

“Where?”

“To the court.”

“Tim, we can’t do it like this.”

“What is it now? The dress?”

“What dress?” Armie tries to stop him. “No, we need to get a license first, then we have to wait…”

“My cousin works in the Clerk’s Office,” Tim continues pulling. “He arranged a waiver for us this morning. We’re fine.”

“What do you mean _this morning_?” Armie stops.

“I called him from Dakota,” Tim rolls his eyes. “Of course, at the time I thought you were dying… Doesn’t matter – don’t mention that you’re healthy and the waiver will work. Let’s go.”

“No, wait a minute… you couldn’t… you weren’t going to leave me?” Armie asks incredulously.

“Armie,” Tim sighs, “I’m your alpha, I will never leave you. I might divorce you in a year, if you insist, but I will never leave you.” Then his eyes narrow, “Only don’t think that you’re off the hook concerning that shit you pulled in my absence. It will be dealt with, postnuptially.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Armie tries to shake off Tim’s hand. “I won’t marry you! Not like this! I won’t!”

“Don’t be a pussy! You’ve just now shown some spirit. For five blocks.”

Armie wants to protest some more, but it’s kind of strange to argue that you’re a pussy. It stumps him.

Fucking touché.

At the same time Tim spots a flower bed full of tulips and leaves Armie for a second. When he returns, he shoves a bouquet into Armie’s hand. Thinks for a second, snaps one of the flowers in half and inserts it into his lapel.

“Ok, we’re ready. Let’s go,” he grabs Armie’s hand and starts pulling him again. They reach the road and Tim jumps in front of the first taxi he sees.

“You fucking crazy?” the driver cries from the window.

“I’m getting married!” Tim replies.

“I don’t give a fuck! Get away from the car, you moron! What the…” the guy stops with his mouth hanging open.

Armie commiserates. He recognizes the feeling.

Tim climbs on the hood of the car and on reaching the windshield plasters something on it

“IRS, _moron_. How about that cash in the glove compartment?”

The driver scowls. Tim scowls right back.

Great, Armie thinks, the driver is an alpha too.

Half of the jokes he knows start with “Two alphas walk into a bar…” and there is no bar left standing by the end.

“Get in the car, Armie,” Tim says from the hood, still looking at the driver

“But…”

“Get in the car!”

Tim watches Armie get in, then jumps from the hood and runs to the door.

“Civil Court on Centre. You get us there in 20 minutes and you’re safe,” he nods to the driver.

“How the hell do you want me to get there in 20 minutes with this traffic?”

“Your problem,” Tim smiles sweetly and glances at the registration, “Billy.”

The driver sends him daggers from the rearview mirror, but Tim forgets about him immediately.

“Hey, Paddy, yeah, it’s me,” he says on the phone. “Ok, so we’re on our way. Take the papers and run straight to the court, we’ll meet you there. Push it through – I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

“We can wait,” Armie says.

“Run straight to the court,” Tim repeats and listens. “Yes, he’ll change his name.”

“Like hell I will!”

“What is wrong with Chalamet?” Tim frowns.

“Everything!” Armie exclaims. “And I like my name, it has weight in the South,” he says proudly.

“It sounds like porn in New York.”

“I like my name…”

“Ok, no, he wants to stay Hammer,” Tim rolls his eyes. “Yeah, really. Aha, ok, see you there.”

“No, look, this is a bad idea, this is the worst idea ever,” Armie starts to wake up. “Stop the car! I don’t want to get married!”

“Drive, Billy, drive. Just wedding jitters.”

“Tim, I don’t want to lose you, it’s true, but I don’t want to marry you, either.”

“So what do you want to do with me then?” Tim inquires.

“I don’t want to get married!”

“You brought it on yourself. Penalty for your treachery.”

“Tim, I need my pills,” Armie breathes hard.

“What pills?”

“I have… It’s antidepressants, I need to…”

“Don’t worry, wedding is a joyful occasion.”

“Tim…”

“Armie, you’re engaged now, stop whining and enjoy it for 20 minutes,” Tim says, but cracks the window a bit. “And admit it – I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I still don’t know how you happened to me, or why,” Armie looks at him. “What the hell did I do to deserve you?”

“Thank you,” Tim smiles.

“It wasn’t a compliment…”

“It was, you just don’t understand it yet. You don’t understand anything really, but it’s alright, I’ll still keep you,” Tim sighs.

“For a year,” Armie glances at him.

“What?”

“For a year. We agreed that it’s only… for a year.”

“Ah, yes, for a year.”

Maybe it’s the IRS thing or maybe Billy really knows the city so well, but they have to stop only at one traffic light, where Armie tries to claw his way to freedom, unsuccessfully.

Tim sighs and drags him back. Tim is patient.

If they were going slowly, now they are moving frighteningly fast. So fast Armie feels a bit dizzy.

You’ll be out of my life in a month, he promises silently, you’ll run screaming and won’t look back.

He looks at the tulips. He would have thrown them away, but he is against littering. So he holds them.

They are yellow. He hates yellow.

Too sunny. Inappropriate.

Wedding is a joyful…

No, too sunny.

They arrive at the courthouse and Tim drags him out of the car, keeps dragging him up the stairs. There is a lot of determination there for a guy who looked like death only an hour ago.

Was it an hour? Armie thinks. It can’t be. Your life can’t go to hell in such a short time. It’s unfair.

“Paddy!” Tim waves to someone standing at the entrance.

“Oh, hey, man!” the guy smiles widely and they hug each other, though Tim doesn’t let go of Armie’s hand.

“So, the judge is expecting you, but we need to be quick, it’s a quarter to six,” this Paddy says cheerfully. “He is a good guy, but he won’t wait.”

“Yes, yes,” Tim nods. “You’re coming with us, we need a witness.”

“Of course!”

“You are related?” Armie glances from one to the other. This Paddy is a ginger, pale, heavily freckled. As close to Tim as a seagull to armadillo.

“Yes,” Tim nods. “Soon you’ll be too. Let’s go.”

“Nice to meet you,” Armie hears, while Tim starts dragging him up another set of stairs.

He remembers about the tulips, but it’s too late to throw them away when they run into the room, where a bored judge sits playing with a yo-yo.

“Late for your own wedding, gentlemen?” he yawns.

“Traffic,” Tim shrugs and pulls Armie after him.

“We can return some other day…” Armie tries.

“We can skip the boring part is what he means,” Tim interrupts. “Like if we are both willing and if there is any coercion. We are, we are very willing, we can’t wait, really.”

“Don’t skip anything!” Armie says immediately.

“He is my omega,” Tim taps his nose and looks at the judge, “skip it.”

“Look, no, I think…”

Judge looks at Tim, then at the clock. “Alright, we can skip it,” he nods.

Armie stares at him incredulously. But of course, the judge is an alpha too. Of course.

The judge picks up the file, then pauses and looks at Tim.

“We have true mates script. Do you want it?”

“How much?”

“Seventy five dollars.”

“Is it long?”

The judge picks up another file and counts. “Four paragraphs.”

“For seventy five bucks?” Tim is outraged. “No, I may be unemployed now, we can’t afford it. Give us the usual. We like _normal_.”

Judge nods, puts away the file and returns to the one he has opened before.

Armie glances at the tulips in his hand again. They look sadder now, they are tired too, but still infuriatingly yellow.

“Marriage is a promise of love and commitment,” the judge starts reading monotonously, “of mutual support and faithfulness. It is a journey that starts with a single word and turns into a multivolume odyssey, full of joy and discoveries, surprises and epiphanies.

“Love is a flame that can survive only if two hands are sheltering it from the storms. Do not forget what brought you here today, do not abandon the faith you have in each other today, do not waste the days given to you…”

Armie stops listening. He looks at Tim, then at the tulips, then at Tim again. It’s unbelievable. They are getting married. For a year.

They are getting married.

Tim squeezes his hand lightly.

It takes Armie by surprise when Tim says _I do_. They have already reached that part, it seems. He glances at the clock. It’s five minutes to six.

“And you, Armand,” the judge turns to him, “do you take Timothée to be your partner for life? To help and support him, to comfort and love him now and forevermore?”

Armie looks at Tim again.

“No,” he says firmly.

The judge frowns.

Tim raises his brow.

“I mean, not forevermore. I take… only until next May. Then I’ll be happy to give him back,” Armie looks at the judge. “Sharing is caring.”

“So petty,” Tim rolls his eyes.

“We agreed.”

“You sure you’ll get to next May, son?” comes from the judge.

“What is that supposed to mean, Your Honor…?” Armie glances at the nameplate - Gauda… Guadag… Gadagino or something. No, he won’t bother. He rarely gets it right with exotic names.

“Well, it says here that you’re _in extremis_ ,” the judge looks at some document, then at Armie.

The waiver, Armie realizes and looks murderously at his newly acquired ginger relative, and the guy has the decency to blush slightly.

“He is, he is, Your Honor,” Tim inserts. “He is already delirious, don’t you see?”

“Damnit, if I manage to survive until next May, I want my divorce!” Armie says firmly.

“If you survive, you’ll get it,” Tim nods solemnly.

“But you agree?” the judge asks again.

“Until next May - and I want it noted somewhere - until next May I agree.”

“Very well,” the judge closes his file and sighs deeply. “By the power invested in me by the State of New York I now pronounce you married. Do you have rings?” he glances at Tim.

“No, I’ll buy them later.”

“Alright,” the judge nods. “You may kiss him then, if you want. Joy and happiness, until next May. Hopefully.” And he looks at Armie compassionately.

Tim comes up to kiss him on the cheek and Armie can’t help noticing that he is getting on tiptoes to reach him.

“Now you are mine officially,” Tim smiles.

“Until next May.”

“May it never come,” Tim winks and kisses him again, this time with gusto.

And damn it all, damn it all, but they are married now.

After three months and one Dakota.

For a year and not a day more.

For a year and not a day less.

Married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was enjoyable. I had to rewrite it a couple of times and this is the best I can do.
> 
> Thank you for reading. The fact that people don't abandon this story helps enormously, especilly during "I have no idea how to say it" moments. So, thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

Armie stares at the mess and the mess stares back.

Tim’s apartment is a perfect reflection of its owner – small and chaotic. Not much of an apartment either – it’s basically bedroom, living room and kitchen thrown together and mixed. Maybe they didn’t want to mix at all, but said owner didn’t bother to ask.

An ironing board stands proudly in the middle of the room, a heap of laundry on the armchair (probably washed, probably weeks ago), a dining table is overrun by debris amidst which Armie spots a last year newspaper, shaving cream, aspirin and a tie.

He doesn’t dare to investigate further. People who were looking for a Loch Ness monster should have taken a look at this place – ten square feet more and a bigfoot might find his home here too.

No, Armie won’t look.

Tim doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest, but Tim wouldn’t. “Wedding night under my roof”, was all he said and dragged Armie into this hellhole and is now preparing marinara sauce, because it’s “easy” and he is “tired” and Armie could “feel at home meanwhile”.

Armie doesn’t. This doesn’t feel like home. It’s further from home than his native town from New York, light years further.

“Do you realize what we’ve done?” he exclaims, overwhelmed to the point of talking.

“What?” Tim stops chopping garlic and looks up.

“We are married now!”

“Yes,” Tim nods calmly.

“Yes? _Yes?_ What will we do now?” Armie cries.

“Eat pasta, shower, sleep,” Tim shrugs. “I’m tired.”

“Sleep?” Armie asks. “Sleep how?”

“I prefer horizontally.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Out of the question,” Tim shakes his head. “I’m here to provide you all the creature comforts. My bed included.”

“This bed?” Armie points. “I don’t look like a creature that can fit there.”

“It’s a standard bed, you’re a standard human,” Tim replies with equanimity. “You’ll fit.” He turns away and dumps canned tomatoes into a casserole on the stove.

“It’s a cot!”

“It’s twin.”

“Trust me, it’s a cot. It’s a prison bunk, basically,” Armie says to his back. “And I don’t have anything to wear. Your pajamas will be too small for me.”

“I don’t use pajamas.”

“You don’t _use_ pajamas?”

“Surplus laundry,” Tim shrugs without turning around. “I hate laundromats.”

“Then what do you use?”

“I fluctuate with the weather, so in winter – briefs, but in the summer…” he returns to the counter for the garlic, “well, in the summer not much.”

“It’s still spring, so put something on,” Armie demands. “Something and a t-shirt.”

“If you insist.”

“I do,” Armie nods. “I insist.”

“Ok.”

“I won’t live here,” Armie starts pacing and almost stumbles over some huge book left on the floor. “I’ll lose the last of my mind in this mess. We’ll live at my place, gods help us.” He announces.

“Ok.”

“And you wear pajamas. Always.”

“We have dress code at work…”

“Didn’t stop you from wearing this atrocity!” Armie points to the sweater Tim is wearing. He didn’t even notice it before. But of course, of course on the day of their wedding Tim had to put on one of those.

It’s relatively subdued, color-wise, but other than that the author’s hand is unmistakable – there is a trail of paws starting from the hem and supposedly leading to the collar, only the beast making this torturous route got lost a couple of times on its way, so instead of diagonal path it became a winding trail, with left and right paws interchanged. The poor thing stumbled too.

Armie sighs noisily.

“Ok, what is it?” Tim looks at him. “What is eating you? Is it the wedding? I’m sorry that it was done so hastily. I realize that your previous one must have been a grand occasion with guests and fireworks. Trust me, it’s not the lack of love this time, it’s just circumstances. I’ll give you a big wedding one day, I promise.”

Hearing that, Armie remembers his first wedding – he in a faded t-shirt with a backpack, Liz in a cowboy hat, fresh from a greyhound bus and a night in the cheapest hotel available.

Very grand. Yeah…

But he doesn’t have to admit it, and Tim doesn’t know it, and knowledge is power.

And while we’re on topic - why people marry me any time they want? Huh?

“Circumstances are no excuse,” Armie folds his hands.

“Ok, look, grandpa Gui, they live in Quebec now, in a small village. It’s by the lake, and it’s glorious there in the summer. I’ll make you a big feast on the shore. There are about two hundred people in the village and they all will come, plus my family, plus yours. Also there are horses and swans… well, not swans, geese. But, yes, horses and a priest and…” Tim is saying from the stove. “It will be unforgettable, I promise you. Ok?” 

“No, I don’t want horses and a priest. I want my freedom back! I want independence!”

Tim tosses the spatula into the casserole and turns to him sharply.

“Armie, is it about sex? All this?” he asks, arms akimbo.

“No, I…”

“Do you want to have sex with me tonight?” Tim looks straight at him.

“No.”

“This week?”

“No.”

“Then you won’t,” Tim rolls his eyes. “Relax. That’s all you’ve got to do – say no.”

“I didn’t want to get married either,” Armie argues.

“And you don’t have to stay married, either. You can file for divorce tomorrow, when the court opens, and get it. I can’t stop you. Though I think it will be one of the biggest mistakes of your life.”

“Why?”

“Because you need me and I need you. Because you need a human being by your side, you need love. All your friends, and doctors, and family – and where is it by the way, this illustrious family? – all of them are useless, because they don’t have enough time for you or simply don’t give a damn, not really. But I’m here and I will be here no matter what, because I’m your alpha and I love you.

“So stop looking at me like a virgin at the dragon. I didn’t sleep last night, I spent hours in the airports, I was worried out of my mind – if you were preparing yourself for ravishing, you’ll be disappointed, I can’t see straight, I’m so tired.” 

“So, we’re going slow again, right?” Armie asks quietly.

“There is nowhere to go now. Marriage is a dead end. We arrived,” Tim sighs. “Can you clean the place on that table. Just enough for two plates.” He finishes and returns to the stove.

“But why do we have to sleep together then?” Armie asks meekly.

“Because it’s our wedding night,” Tim dumps steaming spaghetti in a strainer and looks at him. “Also, speaking of sex, when you finally want it, say it too. Ok? Only don’t hint. No allegories.”

“Tim, an allegory is when you say one thing and mean something else by it,” Armie sighs and arranges newspapers into a neat stack.

“Exactly,” Tim nods, “so don’t say suck my dick and mean something else, ok?”

Armie wants to say something, but Tim raises his hand to stop him and picks up the phone, “Hey, mom.”

Mom?

Oh, family…

Nicole…

He and Nicole are family now, Armie realizes. However briefly.

“Yeah… Yeah…” Tim is saying, while he goes back to marinara. “Oh, Pauline? No it’s all good. I resolved it… Aha… I have news – I got married… No! Who would I marry in Dakota? I’m in New York, I’m back… Yes, Armie,” he smiles. “You have a beautiful healthy son-in-law, 6’5”, 200 pounds, kicking and screaming and he says hi… Aha… No, I’ll call dad myself… Aha. Thank you.”

He hangs up and turns to Armie. “Mom approves.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Armie grumbles. “She is probably shocked as much as me.”

“Ok, enough,” Tim shakes his head. “Finish with the table, because the sauce is almost ready and the pasta too.”

 

<> 

A pack of wolves that survived a dozen laundromats and blue checkered boxers.

Soul-crushing ensemble.

And that’s what Armie sees when he stares in the mirror in Tim’s tiny bathroom – himself in an old oversized t-shirt and boxers. Not even boxer briefs, just plain boxers. Checkered.

Hardly a wedding night material, but that’s… good, that’s actually perfect. He doesn’t want to send mixed signals, and the signal here is painfully clear – I’m dull as hell and middle-aged, dragons don’t need to bother.

So, good.

Yes.

And if he is especially lucky, Tim will pass out by the time he emerges from the bathroom.

Though, speaking of mixed signals, his own brain sends him a couple – like his hesitation to come out, like his desire for Tim not to be disappointed.

What if Tim is?

What was his Erica like?

Gorgeous, probably.

And fun.

And edgy.

And young.

And Armie is none of those things.

He wears checkered boxers and perfectly ironed suits and has no idea what kind of music the band on his current t-shirt played. And it’s suddenly once again his high school where he wasn’t privy to inside jokes and pranks, where he rarely understood what people were talking about, where if someone addressed him it was usually about homework.

If Tim didn’t pass out, on seeing this he’d be disappointed that he didn’t.

Armie looks in the mirror again and sighs.

“Are you ok?” Tim asks from the door.

“Oh, yes,” Armie replies quickly.

“You need anything?”

“No, no…”

“Ok, then. Walk carefully, there is stuff on the floor.”

Armie nods to his reflection. If he breaks his neck on the way to his marriage bed – cot – and in this underwear, he’ll never forgive himself.

When he finally opens the door, the darkness greets him, darkness full of stuff on the floor.

He walks carefully. Light from the windows help, but not much, because his eyes didn’t have time to adjust. Tim’s hand suddenly grabs him and tugs him down.

“Get to the wall,” Tim whispers.

“But…”

“Safer,” Tim says firmly and helps him to get into the bed.

It is a cot. It is! Armie can’t even lie on his back, that privilege was left to the owner.

Armie sighs.

“Good night,” Tim says quietly.

Armie sighs again. Expressively.

What kind of conversation he was hoping to start he has no idea, but he thought a loud sigh was enough. Usually works in marriages.

But Tim has never been married, so it’s difficult for him to translate.

Rookie…

Years of hard lessons ahead of him…

“What?” Tim murmurs sleepily.

“I didn’t say anything,” Armie sighs again.

“What didn’t you say?”

“Sleep.”

“You’re _not saying_ things too loudly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was being serious, you know,” Tim says quietly and turns to look at him. “You can divorce me any day you want. You’re not… It’s not a prison, Armie.”

“I know…”

“Is it so bad being with me?”

“No, it’s not bad. I missed you, actually.” Armie confesses.

“You did?”

“Yes. Even your sweaters.”

“I like them, they are warm and bright. I like color.”

“Does anyone else at your job wear something like that?”

“No, they are all like you. Even worse,” Tim chuckles.

Armie cringes in the dark. “I dress according to my age,” he replies primly.

“Oh, so it’s that…” Tim yawns. “The things you weren’t saying. We arrived at age finally. Everything else is kinda resolved, and you’re grasping at straws now.”

“It’s real though…”

“Armie, would you even think about it, if you were alpha and I omega?”

Armie is silent.

“No, you wouldn’t, because it’s irrelevant. So let’s bury this problem here and now - you’re smarter than this, your demons are classier,” Tim’s features become discernible, his eyes darker than night and suddenly very close. “And while we’re talking,” he continues, “because you clearly won’t allow me to sleep on our wedding night and for all the wrong reasons, but while we are talking – stop obsessing over this scent thing. Just stop. It’s bullshit. You hate the word _bullshit_ , I know, so I’ll say it again – it’s bullshit. Stop it.”

“It’s important though.”

“Why?”

“It affects you,” Armie says quietly.

“How do you know?” Tim asks after a pause.

“Well, I’m not an alpha, but I understand how these things work, so I know.”

“Ok. But how do you know _your_ scent affects me at all?”

“You told me,” Armie tries to shrug awkwardly.

“Exactly,” Tim smiles.

“What?”

“I _told_ you.”

“I don’t understand,” Armie frowns.

“Betas and omegas don’t have this ability, so how do you even know if I’m telling the truth? Maybe I saw you, got smitten, knew you wouldn’t give me the time of day and so invented all this,” Tim says completely serious.

Armie starts to laugh and stops. Blinks, stares into the darkness and swiftly sits up, leaning on his arm.

“What are you saying, Tim?”

“You’ve never thought of this?” Tim asks staring at him from the bed.

“No, that’s not possible…” Armie whispers, suddenly very afraid.

“Why? Because you’re 6’5”, can draw, can’t cook and a feminist?”

“I’m not a feminist!” Armie replies annoyed.

“They accept guys, you know?”

“No, no, forget about… What are you… You mean it’s all a lie?” Armie asks and feels cold.

“What exactly?”

“You’re not my alpha? There is no… no miracle?”

“Would it be horrible?”

“Yes… yes!”

“Why?”

“Because then… it’s not real, all of this isn’t real…” Armie whispers shocked.

“No, Armie, what isn’t real is this fear inside your head,” Tim sits up too. “You see, if it’s about your scent, then it’s bad, because it’s about your scent. If it’s not about your scent, then it’s bad, because… because it simply has to be for you. Fuck, it’s so much mental calisthenics that I am not surprised you look so miserable half the time.

“Ok, let’s test it. Come here,” he wraps his arms around Armie’s shoulders and pulls him down.

“Tim, you can’t just say things like that…” Armie resists.

Tim finally manages to get him back in bed and starts sniffing his neck.

“Tim, I’m serious! I need to know…”

“Gods, Armie,” Tim stares at him wide-eyed, “you married the wrong guy!”

Armie tries to sit up again, but then he notices that Tim is silently shaking with laughter.

“Oh, stop it. Get off me!” Armie pushes him away and Tim laughs out loud now.

“You’re mine, you dork. You’ve always been, you’ll always be,” Tim kisses his nose.

“Really?” Armie sounds anxious.

“Do you want to be?” Tim asks gently. “It is a choice, Armie. It’s the only choice that matters and you have it. You always did.

“You obsess over this scent thing, but I don’t think it’s out of ignorance, it’s out of fear. Though it grew out of all proportion in your head and you stopped questioning your own nonsense.

“Do you think it turns me into a zombie? Your scent? Do you think I completely lose my free will or sense of reality, because of it? I _chose_ you, Armie. I _saw_ you, I _recognized_ you and I _chose_ you.

“What do you think I was doing those two weeks after our first meeting at my mom’s? I was thinking, I was trying to make a decision and I was asking about you. I didn’t tell my mom anything at first, I just asked who you were and if you were single. Only when she told me that she was quite sure you were divorced and probably not seeing anyone at the time, only then I came to you and told you that I was your alpha. I wanted to know you, I had no idea if it would work or not, but I wanted to know you.

“And do you know why I returned again and again?”

“No…”

“Because I liked you. Because that first time when I told you – you got angry, but you didn’t laugh. You got scared too, but you didn’t laugh, you took me seriously. And I decided to come back.

“I liked you, you stupid man, I liked you from the start. And then I began loving you, everything about you - your grouchiness, and your snobbishness, and your prissiness, and your suits, and your hat, and your blush. Even that look of deep suffering you give to my sweaters. Everything, but your scent.

“And the same goes for you - me being your alpha won’t make you love me, because love can only be given freely. Fortunately, now you have a year to make your decision, to make your choice, which it is. But a year is a long time and marriage is a great bonding experience, so you don’t need to rush,” Tim yawns. “Can we sleep now?”

“Yes…” Armie whispers. “But Tim…”

“Tomorrow,” Tim says and turns away from him. “Good night.”

 

<> 

“Ok,” Armie looks at his hand-made sketches, then at the screen, “so my thoughts are as follows: bathroom - concrete walls, blocks not tiles, Portland cement will be good, and terrazzo for the floors, too. Kitchen – easy, stainless steel with black marble countertops. Dining room – laminated glass table and white chairs. Heat-tempered aluminum for the stairs and railings. Living room and bedroom – colored, semi-transparent glass over bare bricks for the walls and terracotta leather for furniture. Terracotta will be the warmest out of all, I think he can agree to that,” he finishes and looks at Nick.

“Lighting?”

“Steel and glass pendants all over the place.”

“Ok,” Nick makes a note.

“Good. Talk to him about the final price and then I’ll send him the first draft. We done?”

“I have a question,” Nick looks at him.

“Shoot.”

“Someone saw you yesterday in the street with your alpha.”

“What is the question?” Armie frowns.

“He is back?”

“Obviously. What did this _someone_ see?”

“This someone was Samantha and she saw you two screaming.”

“Perfect,” Armie sighs. “Can I do anything without HR witnessing it?”

“What happened, if you don’t mind…”

“I do, I mind,” Armie looks at him pointedly.

“What happened?” Nick smirks, not intimidated in the slightest.

“Nothing. We got married,” he shrugs and returns to his own notes.

There is silence, but no movement.

“What?” Armie looks up finally.

“Nothing,” Nick shrugs too. “You got married. Happens every day.”

“Yes, go back to your desk. We need to know if the guy accepts.”

“Ok,” Nick nods and gets up. He looks back at Armie for the last time, but receives no reaction and so goes decisively to the door, opens it and shouts, “People, Armie got married!!!”

Armie looks at him shocked.

“You said it was nothing,” Nick smiles sweetly.

“Nick…”

“What gift do you want?” Nick asks from the door.

“I don’t want anything. Why did you…”

“You better choose or it will be a toaster,” Nick advises. “Look at your Skype.”

Armie does and finds a torrent of congratulations and smilies and emojis of the sort he can’t and don’t want to interpret, flying at him from all the corners of the office. Small place, good acoustics – people received the message.

He looks back at Nick helplessly.

“Call your spouse, he might have some ideas.”

“We don’t…”

“Call.”

Armie calls.

“Look, I won’t take a lot of your time,” he says quickly, when Tim picks up. “Well, it’s about a present, the guys in the office…”

“Pizza oven,” Tim interrupts.

“Pizza oven?”

“Yes, write down the model please. I don’t want just any oven,” Tim says sternly.

“You chose it in advance?” Armie can’t believe it.

“Yep,” Tim replies. “And I want it after divorce. Ok?”

“Ok…” Armie shakes his head and writes down the model.

“What do you want, by the way?” Tim asks in his turn. “I’m fleecing my guys too.”

“I don’t fl…” Armies sputters. “I don’t want anything!”

“It will be a toaster then,” Tim says and Armie looks at Nick still standing by the door.

“I don’t want a toaster…” he says weakly.

“Ok, let’s get a waffle-maker. My people can’t afford anything more,” Tim decides.

“Ok, waffle… Wait, how much does your oven cost?”

“Love you!” Tim chirps and hangs up.

Armie looks at his phone in amazement.

“I got it,” Nick comes up and snatches the note from Armie’s desk, bumping into Gina on his way out.

“Armie…” he starts.

“I heard,” Gina says grimly and looks at Armie. “So you’re pregnant I take it?”

Nick suddenly decides to stay a little longer after hearing that.

“Of course, I’m not pregnant!” Armie exclaims. “I’m just married. And it’s temporary.”

“Yes, it usually is,” Gina nods and takes the note from Nick, her brow going up, when she reads it. “Look at me again, are you pregnant?”

“No!” Armie cries.

“Great, because I don’t think we can afford your baby shower too.” She smiles coldly, “What do you want, honey? A stroller from Tesla?”

“Gina, I will pay for this thing. I had no idea…” Armie tries.

“Oh no, I want you to stand there at lunch and look in the eyes of the people you separated from their money. A teaching moment for you.” She turns around and announces loudly, “Folks, lunch is cancelled – we’re celebrating the wedding!”

“Fuck…” Armie whispers hearing the groans all over the place, emojis on his screen turn darker and bloodier immediately.

“I’m happy for you, by the way,” Nick smiles. “Honestly…”

“Get back to your desk,” Armie replies and shuts down his Skype.

 

<> 

He returns home thoroughly pissed. Lunch was spent hearing half-hearted congratulations and disquisitions on how money can’t buy happiness. Times are tough, you know, and there is mortgage, you know, and kids, and college debt, and rampant inflation, and dollar is falling, and recession is coming – to put it simply, we like you, Armie, but anything more than a toaster is a fucking extortion.

Even Youngmi gave him an evil eye, he thinks.

So when Tim arrives at his place, at they agreed in the morning, Armie has already reached the point where he is quite ready to dump this office wrath on his spouse’s unsuspecting head.

“Do you know that people hate me?” he starts, ambushing Tim right at the door.

“Armie,” Tim sighs and puts down his duffel bag, “we talked about it – it’s only your perception. If you…”

“No, it’s not my perception,” Armie interrupts furiously, “now it’s fucking reality. A pizza oven, Tim?”

“Ah, I see…” Tim nods, “look, you know what psychologists say – be more assertive, say what you want. I wanted a pizza oven. It was that or a car. I wanted a car too, but we need this oven more right now. And you got your waffle maker.”

“I didn’t want a waffle maker!” Armie cries.

“Well, I can take it too. After the divorce,” Tim shrugs. “Have you filed already?”

“No, but Tim, it was a wrong thing to ask for such an expensive gift.”

“Armie, how long have you been working there?”

“Eight years,” Armie frowns, “soon will be nine, hopefully.”

“So, nine years,” Tim nods. “And how many times did you get married during this time? Zero. How many kids did you have? Zer…” He pauses, “No, that’s a legitimate question. How many?”

“Zero.”

“Ok, zero. Good.” Tim continues, “And these people? How many times did they get married on your watch? How many kids did they have? I bet Gina’s been around.”

“She is on husband number four,” Armie agrees.

“Four! Armie, four!” Tim looks at him honestly. “And you paid for all this!”

“No, no, I only saw the last two,” Armie shakes his head. “This and the previous one.”

“Still you gave money every time they came to you, every time. They owe you! And me. They owe me, too,” Tim says decisively and then remembers something, “I need oven mittens and pizza peel. Add them to the list. I forgot.”

Armie looks at him in amazement, “Tim, last time we gave a corn peeler for a wedding.”

“You aspire to a corn peeler, you’ll receive a corn peeler. That’s life. Aim higher.” Tim thrusts a box in his arms, “Waffle maker.”

Armie looks at the box in his hands, at Tim who started unlacing his boots and thinks about Gina.

Gina is Monteferranti, actually. And she is no more Monteferranti than Armie is Count De Marigny, but “you can’t be a Perkins and ask for big bucks, not in this city”.

So Gina is Monteferranti. She picked it randomly from a book about Italian aristocracy and missed the fact that half of the original family stabbed or poisoned each other during their glory days, and the part that managed to survive founded a fearsome crime organization that kicked Italy back into Middle Ages for another two hundred years.

Three or four of them are still around.

Three or four, and Gina now.

Since she discovered it, she loves her name even more, including the fact that it sends shivers down the spines of their European clients.

But no one, no one argues about prices.

Business is good.

So Armie looks at his – until divorce, presumably – waffle maker and thinks about Italian aristocracy and corn peelers.

“Are you really mad at me?” Tim looks at him worriedly.

“No,” Armie smiles. “I’ve just realized that I’m not.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” he nods. “I don’t think we’ve bankrupted anyone. I just… I could never do it, I think. It’s just not nice.”

“What? To ask for what you want?”

“You’re an alpha, that…”

“No,” Tim interrupts, “you just need practice. Do you want to have sex tonight?”

“No!”

“Do you want a divorce?”

“Not tonight,” Armie smiles.

“You see, that’s how you learn. We’ll continue after dinner.” Tim says and shows him a bag, “Future cheddar scalloped potatoes.”

“Alright, leave it in the kitchen. I cleaned a part of the closet for you, you should put your stuff there.”

They leave food and a waffle maker in the kitchen and Armie leads him to the bedroom.

“Get rid of it,” Tim demands immediately.

“Of what?” Armie looks at him surprised.

“The bed,” Tim motions.

“Why? It’s a perfectly…”

“You slept with another alpha on it. Get rid of it or I’ll burn it. Together with the apartment if necessary,” Tim says adamantly. “It’s not an allegory, Armie. I don’t mean something else.”

“Well, alright, I guess…”

“By tomorrow,” Tim interrupts again. “Today I’ll sleep on the couch, but tomorrow we need a new bed.”

“Where would I find a new bed for you by tomorrow?”

“You’re the designer in this family,” Tim smiles and strolls to the closet. “I bet you can do it.”

 

<> 

“So, how do you want it to be? Us living together?” Tim asks and pours him more wine.

“I don’t want it to be like you living alone.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning your mess.”

“Define mess.”

“Shaving cream on the dinner table, heap of laundry in the living room, dust. Things like that.”

“Aren’t creative people usually messy?” Tim scratches his nose thoughtfully.

“You said you weren’t an artist.”

“I meant you.”

“Tim, I’m not letting your chaos in my home.”

“I’ll cook,” Tim promises.

“And you’ll vacuum too.” 

“I’ll go grocery shopping.”

“And you’ll dust shelves.”

“I’ll iron my clothes.”

“And you’ll wash them too.”

“And what will _you_ do?” Tim asks exasperated.

“I’ll do all those things too. Plus I’ll wash dishes after you cook and help you with groceries – you’ll choose them and I’ll carry them.”

“That’s… acceptable,” Tim nods regally.

“And you owe me for the bed.”

“Owe you?”

“Yes, I’ll get rid of it for you, so you owe me a favor.”

“I can pay with my body,” Tim says eagerly. “I’m available every day, except Wednesday.”

“Why not Wednesday?”

“We have an interdepartmental briefing on Thursday, I need a clear head for this.”

“Ah, so you weren’t fired?”

“I didn’t receive a raise either, as all the other people who went to Dakota.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can repay me with your body too,” Tim winks.

“Shoot, I am available only on Wednesdays.”

“Great! Morning will work for me!”

“I’m not a morning person,” Armie sighs playing along.

“You can sleep through the boring part.”

“I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Shoot.”

“Indeed,” Armie agrees.

“More wine?”

“No, thank you. Let’s go back to chores.”

“I’ll do taxes, fines and bills, what my salary can cover. And… I can take out the trash.”

“Ok, but half of the bills is on me.”

“You think I can’t afford it?”

“Tim, I’m your husband, not your ward. I’ll pay my share, you’ll pay yours. That’s fair.”

“You’re a feminist, just admit it!” Tim huffs.

“I won’t be a kept man.”

“Alright, how about pros. Marriage has to have some. It can’t be all about trash and dusting.”

“Companionship,” Armie suggests.

“Yes, I want that,” Tim nods enthusiastically. “Massages are part of companionship, right?”

“Massages?”

“We have horrible chairs at work, my back is killing me sometimes.”

“What makes you think that I can do it?”

“Omegas usually can.”

“That’s such an outdated view,” Armie shakes his head.

“Can you?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Great!” Tim smiles brightly. “What do you want in exchange?”

“You wear pajamas in bed.”

“No, no, no, that’s what I was talking about,” Tim says immediately, “stop choosing… Choose something for yourself, something that you like. Not some lesser evil, not something safe and non-threatening. We’re not constructing a bomb shelter, we’re building a marriage. Choose something that you _want_.”

“I don’t need anything, Tim.”

“I didn’t ask what you need, I asked what you wanted.”

“I don’t…”

“Ok,” Tim raises his hand to stop him. “What did your alpha do for you before that you loved?”

“Liz?”

“Yes, your Liz what did she do for you that you loved?”

“We watched TV together,” Armie tries to think, “she loved reality shows and also noir movies from the 50s. She also loved flea markets and… And teppanyaki restaurants, you know where they prepare it in front of you, she loved it,” he smiles. “And photography, we went to many exhibitions, she loved it too. Oh, and football, she went wild during Super Bowl.”

“And you?”

“I? Oh, it took me several years to figure out the rules. I’m hopeless.”

“No, Armie, I didn’t ask what she liked. I don’t care, to be honest. What do _you_ like? What do you _love_?”

“I loved those things too,” Armie shrugs.

“But not football.”

“Well, not football, no.”

“And flea markets?” Tim looks at him skeptically. “You hate messiness and dust and you love flea markets?”

“They are fine…”

“And photography? These are all painted, right?” Tim looks around. “What is it?”

“Charcoal…” Armie looks at the framed paintings on the walls. “Ok, I like black and white movies! I _love_ them. Satisfied?”

“Noirs from the 50s?”

“I love reading noirs!” Armie replies sharply, irritated by this interrogation.

“Great! So it’s reading and charcoal.”

“No, not necessarily charcoal, but… I like paintings, yes.”

“Great! So you’ll show me?”

“Show you?”

“Well, there are places with paintings, they call them museums. Even a Neanderthal like me knows it. So you’ll show me the paintings you love.”

“You’ll go to a museum with me?” Armie looks at him surprised.

“If you give me a massage…”

“But that’s…”

“That’s companionship, I think,” Tim says and pours them the last of the wine. “Sometimes it’s what I like, other times it’s what you like – but always together. As a company. A company of two. Companionship.” He raises his glass.

“Companionship,” Armie smiles and they drink. “I like watching you cook, too,” he adds quietly.

“I like cooking for you,” Tim winks.

 

<> 

Night descends on Chalamet-Hammer household

“What are you wearing?” Armie asks from the darkness, addressing the living room.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I didn’t mean to be suggestive…”

“What did you mean?”

“What are you wearing?”

“One night that I have to sleep on the couch and you decide to flirt?” Tim sounds incredulous.

“I am not flirting,” Armie huffs. “I just don’t want to encounter your bare ass in my living room in the morning. What are you wearing?”

“Briefs,” comes a grudging reply.

“Put on a t-shirt.”

“It won’t cover my ass.”

“Add it to the briefs.”

Silence.

“Tim, put on your t-shirt.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Get up. I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I now!”

“Get up,” Armie insists.

There is some rustling, then Tim appears at the door, in briefs and moonlight.

“Come with me.”

“No, thank you,” Armie looks at the ceiling.

“Get rid of this bed,” Tim voice comes from the vicinity of the closet.

“Tomorrow,” Armie promises.

Sigh.

“Good night.”

No response. Probably a raised finger, but it’s dark enough for Armie to miss it.

 

<> 

“Your oven will be delivered on the weekend,” Nick informs him.

“Thank you,” Armie nods, deciding that he won’t apologize for it. He looked at the price, and it’s not astronomical actually. People can survive it even in this economy. They survive Gina’s trips to spa for her birthday every year and no one argues. People pay.

“And now I want details,” Nick sits in front of his desk with a cup of coffee and gets comfortable.

“About the oven?”

“About your marriage.”

“It’s just marriage.”

“No, with anyone else it could be, but with you two… You know we used to watch this espionage series with Trish, but now we missed three latest episodes because we’ve been discussing your life. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that it’s suddenly more interesting than prime time TV.”

“You need gossip material?”

“No, I want details,” Nick says and takes a gulp.

“He is moving in,” Armie divulges.

“When?”

“It’s a process. It started yesterday.”

“You sure you’re not pregnant?”

Armie stares at him. “Am I _sure_?”

“Stuff happens.”

“Not to me.”

“Recently it happens _only_ to you.”

“Oh, get lost!” Armie cringes a bit and picks up the phone “Yes?”

“Sir,” young female voice says, “I’m calling you from Bed Romance, you ordered a bed and I wanted to clarify some details.”

“Yes, of course,” Armie replies.

“You mentioned that it needs to be delivered today. Express delivery will add 50 dollars to the price. Is it alright with you?”

“Yes. At what time can you get it to my address?”

“We work until 9 pm. Is 8-9 pm window fine with you?”

“Yes.”

“Also, sir, I regret to say but you chose a hybrid mattress and we are out right now. Can I suggest something else?”

“Please do,” Armie replies without thinking.

“We have latex, pillow-top and adjustable.”

“Latex.”

“Adjustable is very fine, sir. With adjustable base it can be put into heating or massaging mode. It’s very good if you have problem with snoring.”

“Thank you, we don’t snore.”

“It can vibrate too,” the lady doesn’t give up.

“We don’t want to vibrate, thank you.”

“Pillow-top is very comfortable, it feels like a…”

“Latex,” Armie cuts her off.

“Latex it is!” she says brightly. “Great choice, great bounce! Sir.”

“I don’t want to bounce. How great is it?” Armie asks worriedly.

“Less than springs, but more than foam, sir.”

“Do you have foam?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why did you mention it?”

“You asked, sir,” she replies cheerfully.

Internet is fine, Armie thinks for a hundredth time, people are the problem.

“Latex,” he sighs.

“Great choice, great bounce!”

“Thank you…”

“Please wait for our delivery from 8 to 9. We hope your Bed Romance will be a great experience! Have a nice day!” and she hangs up without waiting for his reply. She probably knows better.

“I don’t need any more details,” Nick says, sounding a bit overwhelmed. “Thank you.”

Oh, hell…

 

<> 

The bed guys of course arrive at 7, when Armie is just returning from work, and grumble that he is slow, that they have two more deliveries, that the bed is heavy, that the elevator is too small, that they are hungry, that the weather is shitty.

Bitching goes on for half an hour, actually getting the bed to his bedroom and assembling it – ten minutes in total.

They bitch on their way out too. Doesn’t stop them.

Armie conjures his inner Tim and doesn’t bother to thank them afterwards.

Tim called earlier saying that he has to pick up some small stuff from his apartment, so he’d probably be late and Armie should heat up the rest of yesterday’s dinner and not wait for him, for which Tim also apologized, though Armie has no idea why – he can’t cook, but he can heat up. Thank you very much.

Admittedly, this whole moving in process bothered him at first, but Tim reassured him that he has “few earthly possessions”, so this small stuff is probably some knickknacks, Armie reasons and doesn’t worry much.

Then he opens the door and Tim enters dragging an enormous duffel bag after him. It’s even bigger than the one with his clothes yesterday and looks like it’s busting at the seams. 

“What the hell is this?” Armie looks at it and frowns.

“My blanket,” Tim says and exhales loudly.

“Your blanket?”

Armie doesn’t believe him, so he goes and opens the bag - something unbearably orange erupts. Puffy too, very puffy.

“What is it made of?” Armie asks stunned and tries to lift the thing, but has some trouble.

“Yak wool,” Tim wipes his sweaty forehead, “it’s very warm.”

“Yak… It’s for people who live in extreme temperatures!” Armie looks at him.

“I don’t like the cold,” Tim sighs, “you knew it when you married me.”

“Tim, you can survive _nuclear_ winter under this.”

“It works during the summer too.”

“You mean you plan to use it now? It’s May!”

“Armie, I can’t sleep under your sheet. I saw it.”

“It’s not a sheet, it’s a blanket!” Armie argues. “It’s organic bamboo fibers, very appropriate for this climate.”

“Well, I’m not a panda, I won’t sleep under bamboo,” Tim fires back.

“Tim, have mercy. I’ll have a heatstroke under this,” Armie points to the “thing”.

“It’s a big bed,” comes the reply. “You can use your sheet, I’ll use my blanket.”

“It’s not a sheet…”

Tim stuffs the blanket back into the bag and drags it into the bedroom, without bothering to argue further.

Later they divide the new bed, they sleep and nothing interesting happens.

Armie doesn’t have a heatstroke. Instead he almost perishes from a heart attack in the morning.

At first he has no idea what’s happening but it sounds like a missile alert.

I should watch the news more often, he has time to think, I might miss a nuclear war with this carefree attitude.  

Then he starts digging Tim from under his blanket, which is no mean fit in itself, because Tim insulates himself from cold better than Egyptians did with their pyramids. There you’re told that you can’t slide a needle between the slabs, here you need to figure out where even to start.

Finally Armie finds a loophole. An air duct, so to speak. This way he finds Tim finally.

“Morning,” Tim yawns.

“Something is happening,” Armie tells him urgently.

“What is happening?” Tim frowns, then turns around, does some trick and the sound stops, as if by magic.

“What the hell was it?”

“My alarm clock.”

Armie looks at the small device that he didn’t notice before, standing on the nightstand at Tim’s side.

“You can’t be serious!”

“I need something loud or I’ll oversleep,” Tim shrugs.

“Because you sleep in your wool bunker!” Armie exclaims.

He tolerates it for one more morning and decides that he had enough, but before he can have a serious conversation with his new husband, something else happens.

Armie opens the door and encounters an unfamiliar view - someone’s Adam’s apple.

He looks higher.

There is a huge black dude on his doorstep.

“May I help you?” Armie blinks.

“Look, man, no disrespect, but turn your siren off or we’ll have trouble. Matilda had a nervous breakdown because of it.”

Matilda, Armie wants to ask, but then notices a fur ball with bright amber eyes, cozily nestled in the crook of the guy’s elbow.

I won’t be beaten for a cat and alarm clock, not the hill I want to die on, Armie decides immediately.

“Won’t happen again,” he promises. “My apologies.”

“You do repairs?” the man asks apropos of nothing.

“Repairs?”

“The manager said you were some kind of renovation guy. I always thought you were a hitman,” the guy laughs, then sobers up. "No disrespect if you are. Tough world we live in.”

“A hitman?”

“You look shady, you know. And that hat of yours,” the guy rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m interior designer,” Armie mumbles.

“It’s like fancy plumber or something?”

“No, it’s… If you don’t know what wallpaper to choose, I can help.”

“Nah, don’t need wallpaper. The pipe in the bathroom has been leaking for ages…”

Armie only nods.

“I’m Russell.”

“Armand,” Armie shakes his hand.

“So you’ll tone it down?”

“Of course. I apologize again.”

Russell nods, then lifts his cat a bit. “Matilda.”

“I, um… Armand,” Armie repeats dumbly.

“See you then.”

“Yes, yes…”

Armie closes the door behind him and goes immediately to the bedroom, takes the alarm clock and hides it at the bottom of the desk drawer in the room he uses as his study.

When Tim later arrives with a small TV and installs it in the kitchen, Armie doesn’t even comment. He thinks he can survive it all after the alarm clock. TV is just a nuisance.

Tim, of course, notices the absence of the clock and tries to argue, but Armie puts a stop to it immediately.

“I’ll wake you up from now on. Companionship.”

Tim’s eyes narrow, but he accepts reluctantly.

Temporary peace and quiet ensue.

 

<> 

On Friday, when Armie thinks that the worst is over, it comes back to say hi again.

The movers arrive. With boxes and boxes and boxes.

“Chalamet?” the crew leader asks.

“No, Hammer…”

The guy shows him the address, Armie nods.

“You’ll sign then?”

“What is inside?”

“How would I know? Weighs a ton, though.”

Armie looks at the papers again, recognizes Tim’s address, sighs and signs.

There are sixteen boxes in all.

Few earthly possessions, my ass.

Armie waits for Tim and prepares for war. He gets it.

“My books!” Tim exclaims, on seeing the boxes. “Great! The bookcase will arrive tomorrow.”

Armie recalls the dark monstrosity in Tim’s apartment, and realizes that yes, there are still hills to die on. This is one of them.

“If it arrives, I file for divorce. This is not an allegory.”

“What is it now?”

“What is it? You promised you had few things, now every day something new appears.”

“I need somewhere to put my books. I have nothing else – my clothes, my books and my TV. And you are mad?”

“I saw that bookcase, there is no place for it here.”

“Of course, there is a place. That wall is usable,” Tim points to the wall with console table.

“It’s occupied.”

“You have nothing there – just a table with a crystal ball!”

“It’s not a crystal ball! If it was, I’d probably see _you_ coming.”

“If this marriage works, you’ll see me coming a lot, don’t worry.”

“There won’t be any bookcase there. It’s final!”

“What do you need it for? It’s an empty wall!”

“It’s not empty – it provides perspective. You put something dark and heavy there and the room will shrink.”

“Darling,” Tim looks at him kindly, “trust me, when we measure it later it’ll still be 300 feet or so.”

“I don’t mean physically, I mean visually!” Armie explodes. “No, Tim, we won’t put any bookcase there. No!”

Tim goes to the table and looks at the “crystal ball”.

“What is this for?”

“It’s art.”

“So it’s pointless?”

“Look into it.”

Tim looks.

“It’s a ball.”

“It’s a sphere.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Price,” Armie mumbles. “Look closely. You see, there are continents inside. It’s a model of our world, and you are reflected in it, so you become part of it.”

Tim’s face drifts over the Atlantic and bleeds into Africa. He doesn’t look very impressed.

“It’s crooked. You have good mirror in the bathroom.”

“That’s not the point, the point is that the way you see yourself and the world sees you are two different things. Modern art is metaphorical.”

“It’s a waste of space,” Tim declares. “We can put it in the hallway. No need to waste the whole table and the wall for it.”

“It’s not a waste…”

“And this chair,” Tim points to a low stool standing by the table. “Have you ever sat on it?”

“It’s not a chair, it’s tabourette!”

“Well, have you ever sat on this _tabourette_?”

Of course not, it’s only here to hide the outlet behind it, but you can’t admit it. It’s a matter of principle.

“There won’t be a bookcase here!” Armie says firmly.

“Where then?”

“We have a walk in cupboard in the kitchen!” Armie remembers suddenly. “It’s empty. Come!” he grabs Tim’s hand and drags him into the kitchen. “Look!” he opens the door to the cupboard.

“It’s a pantry!” Tim exclaims.

“It’s dry and dark! It’s perfect for books!”

“People keep preserves here!”

“What, you want to build a vegetable garden too?”

“No, fresh produce is better,” Tim concedes reluctantly.

“So?”

“I don’t know…”

“Look again, it’s perfect. There is more total shelf space here than in your bookcase, I guarantee you.”

Tim slides his finger over one of the shelves.

“It’s clean,” he says surprised.

“Of course, I wipe it regularly.”

“But you don’t even use it…”

“I still clean it.”

“Let me guess, you’re one of those people who vacuum under the bed,” Tim looks at him slightly horrified.

“If you want to live here, you’ll become one of those people too.”

“Crazy like you, you mean?”

“Tim, it’s pretty simple. Bookcase means divorce, cupboard means you stay. Decide.”

“Pantry,” Tim grumbles.

“Decide,” Armie folds his hands.

In the end Tim votes to stay. Silently. No verbal acknowledgment of defeat.

Later Armie receives a plate of mashed potatoes for dinner.

No comment.

No sauce.

No nothing.

Timothée, king of passive aggressiveness in all his culinary glory.

Armie translates the message as _I’m pissed and out of inspiration_. And _screw you!_ And _you suck!_ And _pantry, Armie?! pantry?!_

But Armie eats it. No comment.

It looks like Tim knows a thing or two about marriage, after all.

 

<> 

“Kolaches,” Tim proudly spreads his arms over the tray. “Cherry, apricot and cheese.”

Armie looks at the rows of small round cakes with bright toppings. Tim has been baking all morning and Armie was obsessing over the flour flying around the kitchen, but the kitchen is no longer his as Tim informed him, kitchen is now _theirs._

So what wouldn’t fly with Armie and never with Liz, flies with Tim, receding on multiple surfaces.

Because kitchen is _theirs._

“How many?” Armie asks looking at the cakes again.

“One for every state plus 14 territories,” Tim says proudly. “I missed baking,” he sighs contentedly.

“Couldn’t you bake a Bill of Rights or something? What are we going to do with all this?”

“Eat. What else?”

“All, what, sixty of them?”

“They’ll still be good tomorrow.”

“Tim, we can’t do it. I’ll eat maybe five, plus you’ll eat…”

“Maybe fifteen…”

Armie stares at him. “Ok… Plus your fifteen. We still have around forty.”

“We have neighbors,” Tim shrugs.

Armie immediately flashes back to Russell and his cat. They do have neighbors, it’s true, but their neighbors don’t particularly like or trust them.

“What about neighbors?” he asks cautiously.

“We’ll share.”

“No, that’s not appropriate,” Armie shakes his head.

“Why?”

“What, you just knock on someone’s door with a plate of cakes and… And what?”

“And share,” Tim frowns.

“New York is not a village. People don’t do it here.”

Tim frowns again. “Who are you friendly with here?”

“I know Mrs. Clarence.”

“And?”

“Well, I say hello to people in the lobby,” Armie thinks aloud. “I recognize the guy from the second floor, he is a banker, I guess. Or a teacher. He wears suits, too. I don’t know his name. There is also a couple… I don’t really know them, to be honest. They had a baby a couple of years ago. Maybe two. I think they might have two, but I don’t know if the girl is the mother or the nanny, I never…”

“How long have you been living here?” Tim interrupts.

“About six years.”

“Wow, ok, so this Mrs. Clarence. Where does she live?”

“This floor, the door to the right from the elevator.”

“And you’re friends?”

“Her balcony door doesn’t work sometimes, I think she doesn’t clean the track.”

“Ok. Go to her.”

“No, you go if you want to.”

“Armie, she probably has never seen me. She has no idea who I am. For me it will be strange to appear on her doorstep with a treat. She’ll think it’s poisoned. I would.”

“I won’t go.”

“Are you afraid?” Tim’s eyes narrow.

“Of course not! It’s just not appropriate.”

“I dare you to go and knock on this Mrs. Clarckson door and offer her cakes.”

“We aren’t in high school!” Armie protests.

Tim arranges cakes on a plate in a small pyramid and shows it to Armie. “Look, they are very nice, fresh and hot. Straight out of the oven. She’ll be delighted.”

“She might be out.”

“Then you’ll be back in my arms in a minute,” Tim assures him.

“You’ll go with me.”

“No,” Tim says thoughtfully. “You’ll go alone. I’ll stay by our door and watch. If she attacks you, I’ll come and slice her jugular,” he scowls ferociously. “You’re safe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a child, I don’t need supervision,” Armie scoffs.

“Then go,” Tim hands him the plate.

“I will,” Armie says defiantly and looks at the plate, then at their door, then back at the plate, then at Tim. None of them budges. “I will,” he repeats.

He does.

He goes.

23 steps separate his door – theirs – from Mrs. Clarence’s. They seem like a desert. He tries to remember what he knows about her. Her husband died about three years ago, sudden heart attack. She is a beta. He was… an alpha?  

Also her sliding door gets sticky because she doesn’t clean the track and he could never find the courage to point it out. Rude. Inappropriate.

What’s her first name? he stops dead.

Evelina?

No, Angelina.

Or Adelina.

Or Avelina.

Lina-something. He can’t call her Lina, she is almost 70.

Is she?

Did the husband die of heart attack?

Was it _her_ husband?

Ok, ok, this is ridiculous, he died, yes. And her door is sticky and you can’t say that.

And she’ll probably be scared half to death upon seeing his huge frame at her door.

He looks back. Tim is not there.

Good.

And she is Adelina, yes. Though he won’t call her that. Inappropriate. She is almost 70.

He rings the bell and waits.

By now he is so nervous he thinks the cakes will burst into flames in his hands.

He waits.

Great. She is out.

Great.

He turns around and prepares to run back with dignity. Tim is not there, Tim won’t see. He will tell he called several times.

“Armie?” he hears. “What a nice surprise!” Mrs. Clarence smiles at him brightly.

“Adelina,” he mumbles. “Mrs. Ade… Mrs. Clarence,” Armie manages.

“Yes,” she smiles again. “Did you want something, dear?”

“I… you see, we baked galoshes… I didn’t, I can’t, but we… Tim, my… Tim baked and…” he thrusts the plate at her. “Here. They are fresh. We thought… We have more than enough, you see, we have 50 and… territories. They are not poisoned!”

Mrs. Clarence stares at him in amazement but recovers quickly, “That’s very thoughtful, Armie. Is it cherry?”

“Yes,” he exhales loudly. “And cheese. There is cheese too, but not… not with cherry. Separately. I think.”

“I like cherry pies. Thank you,” she smiles warmly. “Used to make them all the time when Edgar was alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Armie says mourning the late Edgar belatedly.

“Do you want to come in? I’ll make us tea. It smells absolutely wonderful,” she nods to the plate in her hands.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he replies immediately. “I mean, Tim is… I don’t want to intrude. Thank you.”

“Tim is your friend?” Mrs. Clarence looks at him curiously.

“Husband.”

“Oh, but how delightful! You’re married? I’ve seen a young man in the lobby. Curly hair, petite.”

“Yes,” Armie nods. “Tim.”

“I’m so happy for you! So, so happy! It’s high time you found someone. Such a nice young man as yourself… How wonderful!”

“Thank you…”

“I will return the plate tomorrow. Is it alright?”

“Oh, of course. Yes, you don’t need to. If you break it… We have plates too. I mean… You don’t need to hurry. I mean…”

“Of course, of course,” she finally takes pity on him and decides to let him go, “say hello to your husband and thank him for me. It was very thoughtful.”

“Yes, thank you. I mean, my condolences… For Edgar.”

“Thank you,” she frowns slightly.

“I will go then,” he says, not knowing why it sounds as a plea, as in _please may I finally go, please!_  

“Yes, yes,” she nods again and closes the door.

Oh, thank fuck, Armie thinks. Oh, thank…

He marches back to his door, opens it and slams it for emphasis.

“Don’t you ever send me to any neighbors with any cakes!” he confronts Tim in the kitchen. “Ever!” and he storms to the bedroom, slamming this door too.

Ever.

Bang.

Exclamation point.

How idiotic, how awful, how childish. He can’t do these things. He is not good with these things. Bringing cakes, talking to people.

First this Russell, now Mrs. Clarence.

How awful!

“Get out!” he snarls.

“Was she rude to you?” Tim asks sitting beside him on the bed.

“No.”

“She didn’t want the cakes?” Tim tries to catch his eyes.

“She took them. I left her no alternative. She wasn’t rude, Tim. I was… I was awful. I was awkward. I… She thought I was smart, what will she think now? Don’t you ever…” he turns to Tim who is looking at him attentively, “don’t send me to the neighbors… Please…”

“Why do you think you were awful?”

“I expressed my condolences for her husband! He died three years ago! Tim!”

“Ok, ok. I don’t think she was terribly offended.”

“Tim, we talked probably four times in five years and now I appear at her door with cakes!”

“Four times in five years – she was hitting on you, you dork,” Tim smiles.

“Oh, shut up!”

“Of course, she was. Couldn’t wait for her husband to breathe his last even. Shameless hussy!”

“Tim!”

“You’ll see, now her door will start working again, as soon as she sees me.”

“She saw you in the lobby actually,” Armie glances at him. “She knows you. I told her you were my husband.”

“I am,” Tim smiles again and straddles his lap. “I am.”

“What are you doing?” Armie tenses.

“I missed you,” Tim kisses his cheek. “I missed you terribly. We’ve been married a week and we never kiss. I missed you,” and he kisses Armie’s other cheek. “I miss El Piace, I miss your kisses, you’re a wonderful kisser. You’re not awful, you’re not awkward, you’re wonderful.” He looks at Armie. “And mine.”

“I’m not good with people, Tim,” Armie complains. “Nick deals with people, I don’t. I write e-mails. I don’t talk. It’s easier for you.”

“People hate me, Armie,” Tim kisses the tip of his nose. “To the point of murder. You wanted to drown me in the Hudson, if I remember correctly, and you’re not alone. Last year I was shot at.”

“What? Really?”

“Well, I don’t know if it was addressed specifically to me, but the barrel pointed in my general direction. Armie,” he sighs, “I’m a tax collector. People hate my guts.”

“It can happen again,” Armie says worriedly. “You can be killed.”

“Very stressful job,” Tim nods, “demands a very skillful omega by my side. Someone to care for me, to soothe me. Strong and patient and gentle and smart. Like you. I’m so lucky that it’s you.”

Tim leans closer and Armie feels light playful bite on his neck.

“Hey…” he shivers.

“I’ll bite you. One day I’ll bite you, if you let me,” Tim whispers. “Your neck and your back and your thighs and your ass. Yes, I’ll bite your ass. Without a doubt. It looks juicy,” he pushes Armie’s shoulders gently and presses him down on the bed. “Without a doubt.”

“Tim…”

Tim gets down on his elbows and brackets Armie’s head between his arms, hovering over him. “Will you let me?”

“One day,” Armie whispers.

“One day,” Tim repeats and smiles, then tugs at his hair slightly and Armie realizes what he wants, he wants him to bare his throat, to give him access.

Armie swallows. This is unknown territory. Too soon? They’ve been married for a week. Is it too soon? They met in February.

He is slow with these things – with people, emotions, places, feelings.

He feels fear, he thinks.

And excitement.

Yes, he feels excitement too.

Tim looks at him and waits.

Armie lifts up his chin and Tim smiles, leans closer and Armie feels his lips on his neck, feels the fangs appearing briefly and retreating, feels soft warm breathing.

Feels so vulnerable.

But safe.

He feels safe with Tim.

Even though Tim has fangs and every time they slide over his Adam’s apple he swallows instinctively.

But he feels safe.

Tim now makes this sound that Armie knows too, that soft, deep and thrilling noise, which is all contentment and satisfaction. The sound big felines make catching the cubs with their paws and dragging them closer, to tuck under their enormous bodies.

Tim isn’t enormous at all, but Tim is powerful, Armie feels it. Slim but wiry, tough, full of condensed energy and will. Tim is an alpha, a hunter, descendant of predators and fighters, of someone who guarded the fire while others slept, of someone who went into the darkest corners of the woods and scared the darkness itself.

All this was tamed by millennia of civilization, but not extinguished, not erased, all this was kept and preserved in his genes.

Floods and crucifixions, cities and peoples came and went, but this survived and triumphed, stronger than any cataclysm, stronger than human laws and superstitions, stronger than culture, stronger than death.

Armie inhales deeply and almost catches it.

An alpha.

Almost, almost his.

He relaxes some more, Tim approves, tugs at his hair again and bites him slightly.

Almost, almost…

A doorbell.

Armie freezes.

“Yes, I’ll slice her jugular,” Tim growls.

“She said… tomorrow…” Armie swallows. “It might be your oven actually.”

“My oven?” Tim pulls back immediately.

“Nick said it’d be delivered on the weekend.”

“My oven!” Tim smiles brightly and springs from the bed, then returns and tries to drag Armie after him. “Let’s go, let’s go. It’s my pizza oven!”

“You go,” Armie sighs. “It’s _your_ oven…”

“My oven!” Tim cries and runs from the room.

Armie falls back on the bed.

I won’t survive a year of this, he decides. I’ll divorce him next week.

Or in two weeks.

By June, I’ll divorce him by June.

I can’t survive a year of this. I don’t recognize myself after a week…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to finish this chapter sooner, but life intervened. This story isn't prewritten so irregular updates are a thing. My apologies.  
> Anyway, as always, I hope it was enjoyable. If not, I'll try to do better in the next installment.  
> Thank you for reading.


	9. Chapter 9

Tim is a nuisance.

No, Tim is a presence, and it’s this presence that is a nuisance, because it is felt everywhere in Armie’s apartment these days.

Somehow it managed to take Armie by surprise, the fact that once here Tim will stay here.

That the end of something is always the beginning of something else.

After moving in comes living together.

Armie wasn’t ready for this, didn’t count on it. First week seemed like a game, a make-believe, but it’s quite serious, it’s really happening.

Tim is here, he is more here than ever before and it’s impossible to ignore.

It’s a peculiar sensation, this knowledge that you’re sharing living space with someone else. You’re always aware of it. Armie feels the change – in his place and in himself. The temperature of his apartment changed with Tim’s arrival, its sounds and smells changed.

And now the colors are changing too, because Tim doesn’t like “this greige”, Tim can’t live in “this mausoleum”, Tim is afraid he’ll “go crazy too”. And his solution is as bonkers and irritating as his messenger bag over which Armie trips every single night on his way to the bathroom, because his solution is to buy Christmas lights that were on sale and hang them all over the living room.

Armie, of course, goes through the roof, or tries to, only to bounce back, because this roof is made of steely layers of Tim’s determination. His precious husband doesn’t react to intimidation the way he used to only a week ago, when one word “divorce” would shut him up and make him docile.

No, the times are changing. When Armie mentions divorce, Tim only sighs philosophically, sheds some tears and continues chopping onions for soup. But if the first week taught Armie anything, it was that you can always trade with Tim.

Who knows where it came from, but Tim is all about deals and favors. He can be bought, if you guess the price right.

Armie makes the first bid – they can change the curtains, from ivory to cream. Tim doesn’t look particularly tempted.

Armie throws carpet and couch pillows into the mix.

Nothing.

Forty minutes of arguing follow, which is basically Armie arguing and threatening and pleading and reasoning and Tim chopping, boiling, mixing, frying some thing or another and not giving an inch.

Armie starts sensing a trap, it’s not about Christmas lights, he begins to see, some diabolical plan is in play here - there is something that Tim wants in particular and lights are just a distraction.

“What do you want?” Armie asks him finally.

Tim smiles predatorily.

In the hindsight Armie should have seen it coming – it’s all pretty simple if you think about it. What Tim wants is what he’s always wanted – namely Armie and without his pajama top.

“Take it off and I’ll take down the lights,” Tim looks at him.

Tim didn’t go gently with the pajamas business - “Grandpas R Us” is what he calls it, - but he grudgingly agreed to them as an entrance ticket to Armie’s bed, and Armie long suspected that the victory came to him too easy. Tim accepted the garment with too much equanimity. Something was bound to happen.

Well, now, a week later, he has the living room full of Christmas lights.

In May.

Empire strikes back.

“And you’ll take down the lights?” Armie asks.

“And I’ll take down the lights,” Tim nods.

Fine, Armie decides, I’ll play. Anything is better than my living room turning into a Christmas shop window.

This way in just a week’s time Tim gets him out of pajama top, without a single shot fired.

Diabolical, just diabolical.

 

<> 

They adapt. Mutually and torturously.

Slowly, too.

And it’s a part of this adaptation, the discovery that Armie makes one morning.

He is now officially designated as Tim’s alarm clock, because the previous one was sent to ignominious exile at the bottom of Armie’s desk. The location wasn’t revealed to Tim and still remains a mystery to him. Armie even took out the battery, just to be on the safe side.

So it’s in the morning, when Armie turns around and is prepared to start searching for his spouse in his puffy depths, that he suddenly finds himself staring right at Tim’s face.

This is new. Last week Tim spent his nights in deep underground, and it was a big deal to dig him out in the morning, it took time and effort, but now he is suddenly here.

What next? Armie thinks. I’ll wake up wrapped in my husband?

Yes, I will, he replies to himself. At this rate I certainly will.

All their senses adapt to each other, so their bodies start adapting too. They recognize each other’s presence even in their sleep and that’s why Tim’s face is now on display and turned towards him. Also, that motherfucking blanket seems like it moved during the night.

No, I won’t wake up wrapped only in my husband, I’ll be wrapped in _this_ too, Armie realizes.

It’s coming. You close your eyes for a second, lower your guard and then it’s yak all over you.  

I have a new husband, a new bed and a fresh hickey on my neck, because this husband was all over me just two days ago and is probably eager for a repeat performance.

And just don’t get him started on this hickey, it is the reason he wore a turtleneck for three days at work. Nick thankfully didn’t say a thing, but Gina wasn’t so generous.

Yak me.

Armie studies his face. Tim is rarely in stasis, so the moment is perfect.

Is Tim handsome? Armie finds himself thinking. Strange that he never thought about it, that it wasn’t important before. Is it important now?

Yes, in a way.

And no, not really.

He doesn’t know whether Tim is handsome, but he knows that there is nothing about him that he would change given a chance - no part of Tim looks out of place or awkward, bigger or smaller, thicker or thinner than it should be.

Which is Armie’s circuitous route to admitting that yes, Tim is attractive and nice to look at.

So Armie looks some more, then moves closer and sniffs the air. Of course, he feels like an idiot, sniffing his sleeping husband, but it doesn’t stop him. It rarely stops anyone.

I hope I won’t sneeze into his sleeping face. That would be difficult to explain.

Will wake him up, though. Surely.

But Armie doesn’t want to wake him up, not just yet.

So he continues his sensual exploration.

Tim’s scent produces a visceral reaction, immediately reminds him of being pinned to the bed, his hair in a firm grip, his neck exposed. He squirms a bit.

Won’t happen again, he promises.

Ever.

Just an accident.

Right.

Riiight…  

Aha.

As if.

As if he didn’t kiss you just last night before bed. As if you didn’t want him to. As if he married you for celibacy’s sake.

Riiight.

Fuck, I need to control myself, Armie thinks. At this rate _he_ will wake up wrapped in me, or worse.

What is worse he can’t decide right now, so he continues to study Tim who scrunches his nose sleepily, ignoring the mental storm rising around him.

Tim has freckles, Armie discovers all of a sudden.

Exactly seven and scattered, hard to notice at first.

And his eyelashes are long and curvy and his brows can’t decide in what direction to grow so they try all of them at once.

Funny.

Also one of his fangs is visible now, just a tip. They clink when Tim drinks from narrow glasses, and it’s very amusing. But they are no laughing matter - even when Tim bit him in jest two days ago, it felt very serious. Tim is proud of them, Armie knows, they are exactly the size they need to be for a grown alpha, no inches missing here.

Also it didn’t feel like any inches were missing down there…

Hell, I need to stop this. It’s 7am and my mind is in the gutter already. Also he is asleep, and it’s creepy to think about…

And what grown up man calls it “down there”, for fuck’s sake?    

Tim has a big dick, it felt like.

Better?

No, I’m losing my mind. I wasn’t like this a week ago, Armie sighs.

“Tim, wake up!” he says sharply and Tim immediately disappears under the blanket, the way deep sea creatures fold in on themselves when a curious human touches them.

Just whoosh - and you’re left with nothing.

I’m not here. And never been. You’re looking at a rock, mister. Nothing beautiful or edible in these parts.

Let’s see how much oxygen you have there, Armie smiles and waits.

Tim holds on for a whole minute and reappears.

“Wake up!”

“Muhphm…”

“You’ll be late.”

“Uhmmhhh…”

“You’ll be fired.”

“Ummmmm…”

“I’m naked!”

Tim opens his eyes immediately.

“Good morning,” Armie smiles sweetly and gets up from the bed, his pajama bottoms of course present.

“You cheat!” Tim cries from the bed.

“One day I won’t,” Armie replies on his way to the bathroom.

“You promise?”

I’m afraid so.

I really am.

He doesn’t reply.

 

<> 

Everything catches Armie by surprise in this marriage.

Everything.

Including sweaters in the closet.

Including waffles for breakfast.

Including socks in the key bowl.

Including dark hair in the shower.

Including Tim from time to time, to give him a smooch.

 

<> 

In the meantime Tim falls in love. And not with Armie.

He didn’t notice her at first, didn’t even look, passed by and dismissed her without a second glance. Then something gave him pause, then he turned around, then he fell, hard and fast and forever.

Her name is Jacqueline - pretty girls should have pretty names - and she is perfect.

They were made for each other, Tim regrets his negligence, and as any man in love can’t shut up about the object of his affection. They have long, if one-sided, conversations and stare at each other adoringly. Tim sighs deeply and meaningfully.

Armie openly threatens to hospitalize him and – silently - himself because deep down he feels jealousy and because Jackie is Armie’s washing machine.

“You don’t value what you have, until you lose it,” Tim teaches him. “I lived with my parents and I had it, then it was laundromats.”

Tim finds and downloads a manual for her and quotes it to Armie in bed. “She is exquisite. She is worth marrying you,” he confesses.

Armie never got the joke about people talking to their microwaves. _He_ never did, so he didn’t understand what was so funny about it. Now he has a husband who talks to a washing machine and thinks she is pretty.

Marriage is not a series of discoveries, it’s a perpetual WTF.

 

<> 

It happens in the shower. It could happen anywhere and does, but to Armie it happens in the shower. It’s a place to come clean, after all.

There is that law of physics that states that two bodies can’t occupy the same space simultaneously – and what works with particles, works with spouses.

And drug dealers – hence all the turf wars.

Those guys fight for corners, civilians - for rooms.

Armie walks around his apartment and doesn’t think he is winning. So far he got the smaller bedroom, which is his study and for which Tim has no use, and one half of the bed, which Tim craves and doesn’t try to hide it.

Kitchen is nominally theirs, but these are just words. It’s Tim’s domain from top to bottom and Tim reigns supreme. Armie comes in to be fed and wash dishes occasionally, other than that it doesn’t seem like he is particularly missed or even been there before.

The rest of the apartment was up for grabs and ended up suffering the tragedy of the commons. They share and exploit it.

Armie finds the arrangement mostly tolerable, for now. Except for one thing - Tim has an open door policy which unfortunately includes the bathroom and the short periods when Armie occupies it.

And it looks more and more like Tim is really interested in getting to the bathroom only when Armie is there.

“You can wait five minutes!” Armie cries from the shower.

“I’ve been waiting for months now,” comes the dry reply.

Then silence.

Armie stops breathing and waits.

I’m a whore, he realizes with dismay. I am. There is no nice way of putting it. There is that part of me, that whorish part, that likes driving him crazy, wants him desperate. Underneath it all I want him to kick down the door and just… and just…

He gasps and splutters, water getting into his nose.

“Who locks the door to his own husband?” Tim asks him when he finally comes out.

“Recent husband.”

“You do realize that I’ll see you naked sooner or later?”

“Later is the key word.”

“Later is a euphemism in our case,” Tim rolls his eyes. “I hate euphemisms.”

The fact that Tim has a point here only irritates Armie, but makes him nervous too.

Sooner or later.

Sooner or later Tim will make his move and knowing Tim it will probably take a form of an ambush. Not so much a move as a jump.

He’ll jump me sooner or later, Armie thinks with horror and anticipation, not knowing which one is bigger.

But what goes around comes around, and so there comes a day when Armie barges in on Tim in the shower.

In his defense, he didn’t plan to. It takes time to adapt to the fact that you might enter your bathroom and stumble on an unfamiliar ass there, staring at you.

Armie, mouth open in silent scream, is staring back.

He would want to pretend that he admires the thighs, the calves, the shoulders, the broad back - all those things people pretend to admire about the Greek statues. He would like to say that he immediately retreated after he opened the door and came upon this view.

He would.

The fact is that he didn’t.

The fact is that he is standing and looking.

He is _staring,_ mouth still open.

There is a lot of material here – all those broad shoulders, slim waist, smooth back, toned calves, chiseled thighs.

All breathing alabaster against gray marble tiles.

Yes.

But dat ass.

I’m fucked, Armie admits in one of his rare moments of complete mental lucidity.

It’s a one-way ticket right here.

Forget all hope…

Then he starts backing away slowly, scared to death that Tim might turn around suddenly and bust him.

I’m fucked and “later” is a euphemism. I’m fucked _right now_. I had no idea.

 

<> 

“You seem distracted. You don’t like it?” Tim asks later and points to his plate.

“No, just thinking,” Armie mumbles.

“What is it you are thinking about?” Tim frowns.

Oh, you won’t believe…

“Stuff.”

“Look, Armie, I know that proximity to Canadian border is tempting, but don’t even try. I have no desire to chase you through the snow,” Tim says seriously.

I don’t think _you_ will be chasing now, Armie thinks and almost chokes.

“I don’t think about Canada…”

“Do you have a fever?” Tim touches his forehead.

“No, I’m just tired.”

“Then let’s get you to bed, I can wash…”

“No!” Armie says suddenly. “I don’t need… bed. I’m fine, I’m hungry, actually.” He loads a forkful of food and chews enthusiastically.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Yes. It’s very good. What is it?”

“Snap beans, white beans and mashed potatoes basically, plus sausage. I add pepper and thyme for flavor. It’s Dutch. Sounds like _billets in the grass_ , or something,” Tim explains. “I’m butchering it right now, but it’s actually translated as ‘bare asses in the grass’.”

Armie stops chewing.

“You see, the combination of different beans – it sort of looks like something white against green, so I guess…” Tim shrugs. “It’s pretty easy to cook.”

He knows, Armie thinks. He is fucking with me.

He, or some higher power.

Chickens came home to roost and they are laughing.

“What?” Tim looks at him.

“Do you want to tell me something?” Armie whispers.

“About what?”

Armie puts down his fork. “I think I need some fresh air.”

“Armie…” Tim tries to touch his forehead again.

“Just… I’m fine, ok? I need some fresh air, that’s all. I’ll go to the balcony… Just… It’s nothing,” Armie tells him and gets up hastily.

“So you don’t like it?” Tim looks at his plate.

“No appetite.”

Fresh air smells of auto exhaust and rotting spring garbage, Armie breathes deeply.

 

<> 

Tim is reading one of his enormous books that now and then appear from the pantry, with the title so complex that Armie knows he will need a dictionary just to figure it out.

“I don’t read fiction,” Tim told him authoritatively, when Armie invited him to use his library. “It’s boring.”

No, what Tim reads is all those additions, explanations, provisions, summaries, annotations to different tax codes that are collected in separate volumes and that make Armie wonder how convoluted the original is, if they need several other books to explain or correct the first.

Also fiction is for dreamers and Tim is apprehensive about them.

“We have a place for these guys, it’s called US Congress. And half of them dreams about abolishing my firm. No, thank you.”

Armie stopped suggesting after that. Read your annotations. You can’t save everybody from mediocrity.

His own book was hastily picked up from a shelf tonight, one of those he buys on a whim, because the cover appealed to him. And though the cover – a stack of newspapers - is pretty tame, the content, it turns out, is anything but.

It’s a story about a guy working at the post office, delivering morning papers around. Armie was expecting a social drama about an underdog with big dreams, a little guy who rises to the top through his sheer determination and hard work - from a humble mailman to media magnate, something along those lines.

He needed something edifying and dull tonight.

Then he reaches the second chapter where this Jerome delivers a paper to this other dude for whom he has it bad, and that other guy opens the door wearing a towel… and the story takes an unexpected turn. Or bend, rather.

Armie skips the chapter, goes to the third one, hoping the situation will improve, and reads the following sentence: “His blushing ass haunted me in my dreams.”

You’ve got to be kidding me, he swears silently. Today of all days it had to be some soft porn. Today?

No rest for the wicked.

I need the balcony again or a cold shower, he muses. But it will probably look alarming if I take a bucket of ice-cold water and dawn it on myself on the balcony.

Might look suspicious.

He should probably reread some of the school stuff, something about war and pus and futility of human dreams and endeavors. The type of books they prescribe to make certain that pupils will never enter a library or experience hope. With the problems you can’t possibly relate to until you’re fifty and a recovering alcoholic, as the guys who wrote them mostly were.

Literature curriculum – best contraception against reading.

98 percent success rate at preventing you from ever opening a book again.

Armie loved the stuff. Some chick dying from TB for three hundred pages straight was always right up his alley. Just _gimme, gimme, I can’t have enough_.

Instead he is reading about two guys fucking on a stack of newspapers.

The cover wasn’t so misleading.

What the hell is happening to me? he asks feeling his rising temperature.

It’s the stress, he decides. Yes, the stress of seeing my husband’s naked ass…

The ass stress. Common affliction.

He slams the book shut, switches off his light and turns away.

“Does my lamp bother you?” Tim asks

“No.”

“I have only two pages left…”

“It’s fine,” Armie cuts off.

“Armie?”

“I want to sleep, Tim.”

Which is a lie, because what he wants is to stop seeing images of water and skin and gray mosaic tiles.

He tries to meditate – imagines a garden… No, too bright and exciting. A forest. Yes, a dark forest. Sun trapped in the high branches, it’s cold, serene and very quiet.

Imagine a path.

He does.

A winding path.

No! A straight one, very straight.

Breathe slowly, walk the path and relax your limbs one by one.

Slowly…

Slowly…

Walk the path, look around – dark cold grass, columns of trees, air fresh and clear like glass, green turning into blue turning into brown turning into naked Tim against gray mosaic tiles…

The fuck!

Something is just wrong with me, he concludes. Puberty came back to say hi and that it missed you.

Two people living together – these things happen, they are bound to. And it’s not like he never thought about _things._ Things with Tim, too. Only he never thought about them with Tim occupying the same bed.

And now he can’t find refuge even in his imaginary forest.

The second light goes out and Armie breathes a sigh of relief. He hears some rustling behind his back and suddenly Tim’s arm slides over his shoulder and wraps around him. Tim kisses his ear.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks petrified.

“Don’t be nervous,” Tim whispers.

“What? Why? What…”

“What happened?” Tim asks tugging at his earlobe and tries to turn him over.

“When?”

“Tonight. What is going on?”

“Nothing happened!” Armie whispers loudly, trying to fight him off. “I had… Stop! …a difficult day. New client is… Get off! …is finicky… What is wrong with you? Get… Stop… You’re smothering me!” he yells finally.

“Come under my blanket,” Tim’s leg crawls over his.

“No… no, thank you.”

“Why?”

“I want to sleep.”

“Thought you’d go with a headache,” Tim is kissing his neck now.

“I don’t… don’t have a headache… I just… Why are you?.. Get off me! What are you?..”

Tim’s hand travels lower and grabs his junk.

“What is wrong with you?” Armie cries, his heart beating fast.

“Well, if the prophet doesn’t come to the mountain, I guess the mountain must go…” Tim says and Armie feels him slipping under his blanket

He immediately stretches his hand to reach the bedside lamp, but Tim catches him.

“Shhh, don’t panic,” Tim pulls his hand back.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Tim is wrapped all around him, clinging tightly, his chin on Armie’s shoulder.

“I can smell you, you know?” he inhales deeply. “It drives me nuts, you’ve never smelled like tonight. Come here. Turn over.”

Oh hell, of course!

“Tim… calm down…” Armie advises, because people who can’t do it themselves usually give advice.

Tim, probably tired of talking to his back, finally turns him over and climbs on top of him, then leans closer and the kisses start.

“Tim, please…” Armie manages, not knowing himself what he wants right now.

“You want me…” Tim smiles and kisses him again. “You smell divine. Gods, you smell like heaven,” he pulls his hair and sniffs Armie’s neck again. “All evening.”

Armie searches for a place to grab so that he can throw Tim off. He finds his waist, it’s tiny, seems breakable in his huge hands.

“Tim, please… I know, but… I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to… We need…”

Tim hovers over him.

“Why are you so nervous, darling?” Tim strokes his cheek. “You’re perfect for me, your body is perfect for me, it was made to be loved. By me.”

“Tim, we need some time… I need time.”

“You’re shivering,” Tim smiles and touches him nose to nose. “Is it because I’m an alpha or because I’m a man?”

Armie swallows.

“I think both,” he says quietly.

“I won’t hurt you. I will never hurt you. You’re an omega, we don’t even need lube.”

“Tim, I didn’t…” Armie’s voice is a bit shaky. “I didn’t mean to… to send mixed signals, it’s not… We need to stop. You’re not thinking clearly. Tim, please…”

“You’re hard,” Tim presses him down. “Take off this thing,” he starts tugging down his pajama bottoms.

“Tim, calm down…”

“Let me, let me, let me…”

“Tim, stop,” Armie says firmly and finally reaches the lamp. The light illuminates Tim’s reddened face and dark sparkly eyes.

“Why? You want me, I want you. What is it?”

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t…” Armie looks away. “I wasn’t teasing…” he says almost pleadingly. “It’s not that.”

Tim looks at him, then reaches the lamp and turns it off. Armie tenses, closes his eyes and waits.

Tim slides off and lies beside him.

“Come here. Just come here,” he tugs Armie to him and presses his head down on his chest.

“It’s ok,” Tim sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

Tim kisses his forehead. “It’s ok.”

“I didn’t mean to be…”

“I know,” he strokes Armie’s head lightly. “It’s ok. When is your heat?”

Armie’s heartbeat increases again.

“I just want to know,” Tim kisses him again. “We’re married now. I need to know. Just that.”

“August and April,” Armie replies after some hesitation.

“Alright, we have time until August. We have a lot of time. We’ll prepare.”

Armie is quiet.

“You can tell me anything, you know?” Tim says after some time. “I don’t want to pry, but I’m just… I’m scared I’ll do something… I’m scared of scaring you, to be honest. Sometimes I think… like tonight, I can feel it and I can smell it and I know that you want it, but…” he sighs, seemingly frustrated. “You’re ok with sex, right? I mean, in general?”

“Yes,” Armie frowns.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m fine with it. I don’t… I don’t have issues. And we’re married, you’re right, I know that you expect… I don’t mean… I think sex is wonderful. Yes.”

Tim is silent, then, “Armie, did something happen to you? During heat?”

“Nothing happened to me!” Armie exclaims. “Nothing. I’m not some nutcase, relax. I don’t need kid gloves. I just wasn’t expecting it tonight. I’m fine, Tim. We’ll do it tomorrow. Ok?”

“It’s not a duty…”

“It’s literally called that,” Armie sighs.

“Why do you hate your heats?”

“I can’t control my body. It’s degrading. That’s all.”

“Well, it’s intense, I agree, but… It’s natural for you guys. For omegas, I mean. Alphas and betas can get pregnant practically any time, and you have, what, maybe 5-7 days a year, and even then there’s no guarantee. It’s normal that your body tries to compensate and get as much… action as possible.”

“I know biology, ok?”

“Is it about children then?” Tim asks sadly.

“Tim, I’m fine. If I don’t want to have sex tonight, doesn’t mean that I’m… I’m…”

“A nutcase? I didn’t want to say that, I just… I can’t help thinking that there is something here that you’re not telling me.”

“There is _nothing_. Nothing happened to me. Ever.”

“To your mom?”

“Stop it, ok?” Armie replies sharply, really irritated now. “I don’t have mommy or daddy issues either. I wasn’t molested or anything - no creepy uncles, no priests… I wasn’t beaten or abused or… Nothing happened to me! My family is no more fucked-up than any other. My mom is a drunk and my dad is an asshole. Other than that, it’s all fine.”

“Ok…”

“I’m ok with sex,” Armie says and knows that he sounds defensive, but he can’t help it. “Alright, I never… well, I never… slept with a man, but… I understand the procedure and I’m fine with it.”

“Only fine?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That you want it,” Tim smiles.

“If you can smell it, why do you ask?”

“I can’t smell your brain.”

“If you’re fishing for compliments, I’ll oblige you – I think you’re attractive. I think I’m attracted to you. So… The possibility of intimacy crossed my mind. I can imagine it without throwing up. Satisfied?”

“Thrilled,” Tim chuckles. “So what is it you imagine when the… _possibility_ crosses your mind?”

“Just general stuff.”

_Tiles, newspapers…_

“What general stuff?” Tim can’t purr, but gets close.

“You.”

“And what am I doing?”

_Me…_

“Tim, why are we talking about this now? This whole thing, it’s a big misunderstanding, you know? I just… I saw you in the shower today, that’s all. So what? Now we are going to have a sex debate all night?”

“You saw me in the shower?” Tim’s hand in his hair stops moving.

“Accidentally. Yes,” Armie sighs. “I didn’t plan to. I left immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see?” Tim turns to him and suddenly they are nose to nose.

“You have a birthmark on your left shoulder blade,” Armie divulges reluctantly.

“So my shoulder blade got you into this state?” Tim smiles.

“It was just unexpected…”

“Birthmark?”

“You. Naked,” Armie says quickly and starts turning away. “Let’s sleep.”

“Oh, no, no, no. Let’s talk about me naked,” Tim grips his shoulder and firmly turns him back. “I have several birthmarks,” his eyes are dancing in the dark.

“I know,” Armie sighs.

“Oh, you _do?_ ”

“Fuck…”

“Did you see the one on my ass?”

“Three,” Armie says without thinking. “If you count both cheeks.”

“Did _you_ count?”

“Tim, it’s Wednesday!” Armie remembers suddenly. “You have your… your shindig tomorrow.”

“My shindig will be fine, they rarely ask my opinion.”

“And what is your opinion?” Armie asks eagerly.

“That you stayed for quite a while in that bathroom.” 

“I was caught off guard,” Armie grumbles.

“Did you want to join me?”

“No.”

“Did you imagine that?”

“No…”

“Did you imagine me, on my knees, my mouth on your cock?”

“No!”

“Did you imagine me fucking you? Right there? Face to the wall, your legs spread for me? My fangs on your neck?”

Armie is silent.

“You did, darling? This is what you want?” Tim wraps his arms around him again, pulls him closer. “I will give it to you. I’ll fuck you in the shower until you stutter. I’ll fuck you any place you want. Any way you want. You can tell me anything. Anything you want from me. You can tell me. It will be beautiful, darling. We will be so beautiful together. I imagine…”

“I hurt my wife, Tim,” Armie interrupts him suddenly. “I hurt her during our first heat together.”

Tim stops talking and moves slightly away, listens.

“I couldn’t control myself, she wanted me to stop, she was in pain and I couldn’t… I just couldn’t,” Armie closes his eyes.

Why is he talking about this?

Who would talk about this at such a moment?

A nutcase, sad pathetic nutcase…

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers and strokes his cheek tentatively.

“I’m not the victim here,” Armie sighs.

“Is that why you divorced?”

“No.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen,” Armie replies softly. “But I was as huge as I am today. Tall, heavy…”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know,” Armie admits. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. It’s just… I never told anyone. It has nothing to do with… anything.” Suddenly he stops, “No, that’s not true. I’m telling you because I want you to know, because you think… you have this idealized version of me, and I want you to know. I hurt a woman, Tim. I hurt the woman I loved.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Tim leans closer to him.

“I’m not the victim, Tim,” Armie repeats.

“But you were hurt too. You’re still hurting…”

“I’m just ashamed and disgusted with myself. I hurt the woman I loved because of what I am, because of… how I am. I hate the heats because they turn me into that.”

They are quiet for a long time.

Armie feels that familiar pain, the black poisonous flower that you can’t weed out once it bloomed.

“I dated an omega before,” Tim says slowly. “End of high school, first year of college. It didn’t last long. Eric.”

“Erica?”

“No, Eric,” he smiles sadly. “Before Erica, there was Eric. I helped him through heat. We invented this system when, if he was freaking out, I would hum to him. He had this lullaby that he loved, and I can’t sing for shit, but I can hum. So I hummed. It’s batshit, if you think about it – fuck to a lullaby, - but it worked.

“He was obsessed with alphas, wanted to date an alpha, sleep with an alpha, but he was scared too. Omegas are vulnerable, and alphas are often rough and always strong. So he wanted, but was afraid - he is rather small himself, typical omega. Anyway he wanted an alpha, and I was available, didn’t look particularly dangerous, but still smelled like an alpha, so he started dating me. For a trial run.”

“And what happened?” Armie frowns.

“He eventually dumped me.”

“Because you were…”

“Small? Yes. And poor. He has a type, Eric. _7 feet and Lamborghini, babe. And one of them should be black,”_ he kisses Armie’s forehead. _“_ We don’t put out for less than seven figures in the bank, that kind of thing.”

“We have a guy like this here,” Armie remembers. “I met him the other day.”

“He has a Lambo?” Tim chuckles.

“Don’t know. He has a cat. Persian.”

“I don’t think a cat will do it for Eric,” Tim sighs. “Last time I checked he was rocking Monte Carlo with his new beau.

“Doesn’t matter, the thing is I didn’t know about his fixation on alphas at first, but I figured it out pretty quickly. He didn’t use me, I let him. I let him treat me as his whore because I was in love with him. I cried when he dumped me. I begged him not to,” Tim swallows. “Alphas aren’t supposed to beg. I did. I never told anyone.”

“You were young, Tim. You were in love… you were, what, sixteen-seventeen…”

“You were young, too.”

“That’s completely different.”

“Only to a point.”

“Tim, what I did…”

“Was it your first time?” Tim interrupts.

“Well, yes…”

“Then you didn’t know better, Armie. You didn’t know how your body could behave, how intense heats with an alpha can be. You didn’t know that your body could be so strong and I didn’t know that my mind could be so weak,” Tim pauses. “And I was raised better. My grandfather would never understand if I told him I was willing to be a stud, to be reduced to that, cry when I lost it.”

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

“But I’m not a victim,” Tim returns his words.

Armie looks at him, here, in the dark, and suddenly thinks that he’s never been as close to him as right now, that there is nakedness that goes far beyond physical.

Why is he telling me this?

“You’re a real alpha, Tim,” he tells him honestly. “You’re a wonderful alpha. I… I’m so proud that you’re my alpha.”

“I’m proud that you’re mine too,” Tim smiles softly. “And that you’re so big. I look at you and think – I caught that, this is mine, all this, so strong and powerful, but I caught that.” He kisses Armie, “Will you let me take you?”

“Yes…” Armie whispers.

“And hold you down?”

“Yes…”

“And bite you?”

Armie hesitates, “Yes…”

“I will, darling. I will try to be the best I can be for you.”

“I will try, too,” Armie promises.

“Yes?” Tim looks at him intently.

“Yes.”

Armie doesn’t say anything, but for some reason hugs Tim closer, his nose tucked under Tim’s chin.

Tim sighs.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks, feeling his blanket crawling away.

“You’ll sleep under my blanket tonight.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” he laughs.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Tim nods firmly. “No bitching. I’m your husband, I have rights and needs - one of them is you tucked by my side. And stop with the heatstrokes – no one ever suffered a heatstroke under this masterpiece,” he grumbles.

He grabs Armie by the neck and pulls him closer, then tucks the blanket around them.

“One day I’ll fuck you under this blanket,” Tim sounds content. “One day in July. Think about _that.”_

Armie kisses his chin. Tim growls quietly and it feels like a deep underground thunder, traveling through his whole body.

“I like this sound,” Armie smiles.

“I know.” Tim growls again.

“Thank you,” Armie says after a while.

“Sleep now,” Tim murmurs. “It’s Wednesday. Busy day tomorrow.”

 

<> 

He catches himself thinking about their conversation again and again during the following days, returning to that feeling he managed to capture for a moment there, this intimacy of secrets and pain, more powerful than any other kind.

Dark confessions, exchange of bruises.

Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.

“My mom is a drunk and my dad is an asshole,” was all that he said then, and he now realizes that it took years, decades to be able to sum it up so pitilessly and simply, to give form to the amorphous reality of his life before New York.

Tim hasn’t asked anything since and Armie is grateful for it. He doesn’t know what to add and he is afraid that if he starts talking he won’t be able to shut up.

My family, Tim… My family is probably light years away from yours. A different breed, a different species entirely. I don’t want you to touch it, I don’t want them to touch you.

And my mom… Oh, my mom…

She is beautiful, you know, she was one of the most beautiful girls in our town in her time. She was proud of it, too. House full of her youthful pictures, her dresses from decades ago still occupying her closets can all testify to that pride.

But it goes before the fall, doesn’t it?

She was so proud of her beauty.

And then she had me.

I was the rotten core of this beauty, the secret poison in her blood made manifest and visible.

G23T5 – the gene that produces an omega with the body of an alpha. It was in her veins, running through the female line of her family, reappearing each 4 generations.

Such a small thing, such devastating power.

G23T5.

She had a “sick child”, she was so brave to have a “sick child”. Having wasted her youth, beauty and heart on the man who didn’t care, or at least never enough, she had to find something else to be proud of and she found this.

Her sick child.

Her cross.

Her intoxicating misery.

She lost a reason to live and she had to find another one – and this was her son, her abnormal, poor, disadvantaged son whom she couldn’t love anymore, not really, but oh how she tried. She tried so hard she couldn’t help talking about it all the time. She couldn’t let him forget how hard she was trying.

And it is only now, when he is thinking about it, that he realizes it wasn’t love at all. Not for him. In reality what she loved most was her own martyrdom, her own noble suffering. A magic wand and a crutch at the same time – it could get her back her pride and let her drink herself into a stupor and justify it with her pain.

But he tried to love her back, he tried to earn this love, to atone for the pain he brought her. And so he learned her alphabet of shame, her laws of defeat, learned it by heart and started measuring his own life by it.

Only it wasn’t enough.

It never is, because misery is a private kingdom, an ivory tower from which she looked out at the world, but didn’t let anyone enter. She wanted it all for herself, she couldn’t share it even with her son, in whose honor it was presumably built.

Her sick child.

Her pedestal cast from fake coins.

If you can’t be proud of what you have, you have to be proud of what you don’t.

She was unhappy and she was proud of it. She treasured her new martyrdom.

But deep down, deep down, he knows, she was still ashamed, she was so deeply ashamed that it ate her insides, it hollowed her out. It made her stash bottles in the bookcases, made her hands tremble at breakfast.

In the end, mama, we can escape everyone but ourselves.

In the end there is only the mirror left, no matter how much smoke you create.

And it wasn’t that blood that I inherited, mama, it was that shame. You brought it to me disguised as love and care and I took it and carried with me through the years, making it a part of me, letting it feed on me the same way it did with you.

I had Liz and I thought I loved her most in the world, but that wasn’t true. I picked up too much from you, mama, to be able to love anyone but my own misery for so long.

I learned your futile lessons too well.

Liz wasn’t enough to save me from you, though she tried. She took me out of that town and brought me here and gave me freedom, but I didn’t know the language of this land. I used a different alphabet.

We tried so hard, me and Liz, we tried so hard to save each other from our parents, but only one of us succeeded and it was me. I threw her father down the stairs, because he had a body, but Liz had to fight the blood, the years, the shadows.

And me.

In so many ways I was too much.

In so many ways I just couldn’t stop.

Your intoxicating misery, mama, it produced such a long hangover.

And that’s why the sensation during that night with Tim was so unfamiliar and frightening. It was happiness. Lying on his chest, listening to the distant thunder of his growl, it was happiness, you see.

Clean and clear and so jolting.

Like electric cord across the cheek.

Happiness.

So if Tim asks about his family again, Armie decides to tell him that they aren’t close and leave it at that. He doesn’t want any of them near Tim. His mother especially, because she would try to do the same thing – she would try to drown him in this pity disguised as affection, she would engrave his name on her wall of shame, step away and admire.

She would try to be nice and in the process would humiliate and hurt him the way no insults ever could.

Misery is a private kingdom.

It’s almost impossible to escape.

He glances at Tim fussing in the kitchen, surrounded by his sorcery and steam, smelling of ginger, saffron, garlic and him, him, him.

No, he won’t let his mother anywhere near Tim.

Ever.

 

<> 

Happiness.

That is what he is thinking about this morning.

Happiness.

It has to be learned and understood. It has to be accepted.

What Armie finds out about happiness is that it’s a choice, like everything else in life. And it’s of the same nature that recovering alcoholics make – one time isn’t enough, you have to renew your vows every day.

Every day passing the liquor stores and familiar bars, you have to say no. Eat dirt, writhe in convulsions and say no.

Every day you wake up and see Tim by your side, you have to say _yes, I want it_.

I want him – in my kitchen, in my bed, in my life.

I want to keep him, I want to fight for him.

And I need to start doing it now, because again, like with alcoholics, there are no Mondays here, no tomorrows, no “after this last scotch”. All this is illusion and a lie. If you think like this, you’ll end up dying of cirrhosis and friends will say _he was a good guy_ , but won’t want to elaborate.

So, no, you have to start now.

No delays.

No promises.

No self-pity.

I want to be happy and I’ll fight for it.

Yes.

He remembers the countdown clock at the crosswalk, and it’s the countdown clock now. Life itself is.

They have until next May presumably, and it seems like a long time, but it isn’t. Thirteen years with Liz seemed like a long time, but they weren’t enough, because no one guarantees you that it will be until next May, no one guarantees you that she won’t get on a plane one day and meet someone else, no one guarantees you anything.

Time is an excuse for starting tomorrow, but there is no tomorrow. You don’t have it. You have only here and now, only this moment is real. Everything else is an excuse, everything else is _later._

And later is bullshit.

So, you want happiness? Start now and no guarantees.

It’s a game of chance.

You bet.

You lose.

You bet.

You win.

But if you don’t bet at all, it just passes you by and someone else wins this thing you belatedly realize you wanted so badly.

You start thinking about tomorrow and then this phantom Erica calls and wants him back and he decides to meet her, because why not, and they meet, and then he decides that he missed her, and then he is out of here, because you were sitting and making promises about tomorrow.

So, no tomorrows.

No guarantees.

You bet and you pray.

That’s life.

And there are no atheists in _this_ casino.

You never thought it would be like this. You probably imagined that it would be a rock star or an astronaut, at least. And the music will be playing and right words will be said at right time. All very neat and orderly.

But it’s not. Long queue – not enough rock stars, and all the astronauts are beyond reach. Instead what you have is an accountant, with bizarre notions and ridiculous tastes, awkward, ungainly, irritating.

Did you dream about an astronaut?

Armie tries to remember, then does.

It was an island, a desert island, a boy and a girl lived there and no one else. And they had this big porch to drink ice teas in the evening and look at the tropical sunset.

And the girl had Liz’s face.

And the place looked like a cross between Alabama and something from the current TV show.

And it was paradise.

You never told anyone that you had these stupid dreams, because they were as ridiculous then as they are now. Still you spent years on that island of yours without realizing it.

But what did you do with your real life, Hammer? Dreamt it all away? Wasted it waiting? Waiting and secretly envying other people who had the audacity to go and take what they wanted? Admiring and resenting them for it?

Liz, at least, got her island and plenty of tea. What did you get? You started writing your obituary by 31, eager to get to 35 and put a tombstone over your sleeping, dreaming body.

You blamed yourself for living with your eyes closed, but have you ever opened them? Have you ever tried to change anything?

You read your books and nodded sagely, without getting it. It doesn’t matter what’s been done to you, what matters is what you do with what’s been done to you.

You read and forgot.

You thought they were just words, and there is no such thing.

Time to remember.

Time to gather the stones and start building.

Because you were given a chance.

Because genetics isn’t a lottery so much as it is a roulette, and the same number that cost you your childhood, your family, your marriage, that same number at a different table brought you Tim.

And Tim, not a rock star, not an astronaut, makes you happy here and now. Makes you afraid too, but that’s not Tim’s fault, it’s what happiness usually does to people.

You imagine it as a sunny island with gentle breeze and no responsibilities, where life just happens to you and it’s always pleasant, then you wake up and see that happiness is anything but easy, it’s hard work and no one will do the heavy lifting for you. You realize that going back to the dreamland is the easiest thing you could do - straight to the bottom, shattered to pieces and no regrets.

And it is this you have to fight, this everyday temptation to plunge.

My name is Armie and I’m an addict, I’m addicted to misery, but I’m trying to get clean and it’s the hardest, the scariest thing I’ve ever done.

But, anyway, I think I will start now.

“Wake up,” he kisses Tim softly. “Wake up. It’s morning.”

Tim disappears under the blanket.

Armie smiles.

 

<> 

“Today is the day,” Tim announces on Saturday. “I’ll make a sfincione for you. This oven has been neglected long enough,” he nods to the pizza oven in the corner.

“No,” Armie replies.

“You don’t want Sicilian?” Tim frowns. “Well, ok, I can make a simple Margherita, we have everything for it.”

“No, we’ll go to a museum,” Armie says and drinks his coffee.

Tim cocks his head. “We’ll go to a museum?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I…” he scratches his head. “Do you really want to?”

“Yes.”

“Um… do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“And pizza?”

“You can make it later, or tomorrow, or next week,” Armie looks at him calmly. “We’re going to a museum.”

“Why?”

“Because art isn’t pointless and you need to see it. And because you offered yourself, if I remember correctly,” he smirks. “What, cold feet?”

“In all honesty I didn’t think…” Tim looks down in his cup. “Well, I didn’t think you’d…”

“That I would take you up on this? I did. I thought about it and we are going,” Armie nods for emphasis.

“Will we do it often?”

“If you want to get laid, yes.”

“Wow…” Tim blinks.

“And opera,” Armie adds, “we’ll go to the opera too.”

“Today?” Tim asks with horror.

“No, not today.”

“Will it get me laid too?”

“If you can weather the Italian libretto, yes. Don’t expect much for a translation.”

“I want an advance,” Tim demands.

“Like what?”

“Like a blowjob.”

Armie is thinking about it.

“No,” he says finally.

“You were considering it?” Tim looks at him flabbergasted.

“Yes,” Armie replies. “And no, first a healthy dose of culture, then I’ll blow you.”

Tim’s jaw drops.

“I must have done something right…” he mumbles.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Armie frowns. “Somewhere between February and now. I can’t be more specific.”

Tim drinks his coffee and strategizes. “I don’t have anything to wear,” he tries. “You have a suit for the opera. I have nothing for a museum.”

“Some jeans and a jacket, clean, and you’ll be fine,” Armie sighs. “Just spare me your sweaters today, it’s 70 degrees outside.”

“70 isn’t much,” Tim counters.

“That’s enough for you,” Armie reassures him. “I promise you won’t drop from hypothermia in the Met. And don’t look so apprehensive – if you’ve been shot at and survived, you can survive some statues and paintings.”

“But… but if I don’t like it?”

“You don’t have to,” Armie shrugs.

“Then why are we going?” Tim is surprised.

“You need _to see_. Appreciation is optional,” Armie finishes his coffee. “I want to share it with you, you don’t need to like it. I just want you _to see_.”

 

<> 

Tim ends up putting on a tie. He doesn’t have a lot of them and can’t really knot it, so Armie takes it off and reties it for him.

But it is a message.

The message is something like _I got it, this is serious._

They are standing at the bottom of the majestic marble staircase and Tim is now visibly nervous, pulling the tie and destroying all Armie’s efforts in the process.

“You ok?” Armie glances at him.

“Yeah…”

“You’ve never been here before?”

“I went in school, but…” Tim looks around. “It’s bigger than I remember.”

“There are three of them,” Armie smiles.

“We have to visit them all?” Tim looks at him, shocked.

“Yes, but not today. Small steps.”

“Ok, yes, small steps…”

“Let’s go.”

“Yes,” Tim nods and doesn’t move.

Armie thinks a second and takes his hand. It surprises Tim so much that he starts following blindly.

Armie notices that his palm is sweaty. Well, at least he won’t grumble about the cold.

Armie had no clear idea what he wanted to show Tim today. He had no idea they would go to a museum today at all, but he decided to start with something.

Small steps, but you need to start walking.

He hesitates between medieval and post-Renaissance and finally chooses the latter. Medieval is full of omegas being chased and ravished, witches burnt at the stake, knights killing each other and religious martyrdom. Armie wants something lighter and brighter today.

Something more optimistic.

Also he actually hopes that Tim will like it, so he hesitates briefly and leads him to a hall with still life and landscapes.

It doesn’t start promising. Tim listens to him, looks at the paintings, frowns from time to time and follows him meekly without a comment. He doesn’t look bored or irritated, for some reason he still looks nervous.

When Armie asks him what he thinks, Tim just shrugs and says something like “very nice” or “beautiful” or “wonderful”, but there is no emphasis here, these are just words that he says without meaning them.

We should have hired a guide, Armie thinks. Clearly, I can’t do it on my own, I can’t make it interesting for him.

He tries to remember the time when he himself started coming here. At first they came with Liz, but more and more it was him alone.

Why did he return? He knew nothing about art. He felt intimidated and out of place, at first, - a country bumpkin daring to pretend that he belongs. But he knew that he looked without understanding, without feeling anything. It was more a challenge and a dare, more façade than truth.

And then he found something that he liked. It was a small painting among European portraiture – a little boy sitting in the corner of a darkened room, light from the unseen window coming in and not reaching him.

It was clear even to Armie why he liked it. We need to see our own reflection to find something beautiful, to share the tears we need to know their taste.

So he saw that boy and thought about himself and that’s why he liked it. He didn’t need any explanations and technical vocabulary, he didn’t need to know the period of the piece or biography of the artist to understand it. He needed only to look and recognize himself, and when he did, he suddenly knew what art was all about, he knew he’d be returning here again and again. He found meaning behind the frame and canvas.

As soon as it became personal it became meaningful, it became important.

And that’s what he can’t quite achieve now – he can’t make it personal for Tim.

He tries to remember some amusing anecdote about the painting they are facing now and nothing comes to mind. Ready to apologize, to suggest that they hire an expert, he turns to Tim and sees that Tim isn’t looking at the picture – he looks at him. He is more interested in Armie and what Armie thinks about it, than in what is depicted or how.

“Do you like it?” Armie asks.

“Do you?” Tim bites his lip.

“No,” Armie glances at the painting. “Not really.”

Tim nods. “It’s… bland,” he says, but looks at Armie.

Armie frowns. He knows what is happening, he just isn’t sure how to change it.

“Ok,” he says suddenly, “let’s go.” He grabs Tim’s hand and starts leading him away from the hall.

“No, I… Armie, I’m sorry… I…” Tim tries to stop him. “It’s very… We can look more…”

“Tim,” Armie turns around, “you have nothing to be sorry for. I want to show you something else, that’s all.”

“We aren’t leaving?” Tim asks worriedly.

“No, I just have an idea. Let’s go.”

He brings Tim to the next hall and looks at him expectantly.

Tim looks around and blinks.

Armie leads him to the closest painting and points to it, “What is it?”

“Um… I… I don’t know. I mean… food. Still life,” Tim frowns.

“No,” Armie points again. “What is this thing?”

Tim looks closely. “Brisket.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s not pork?”

“Pork?” Tim looks at him aghast. “Of course, it’s not pork. Look at the color, it’s dark. And this type of fat… It’s brisket, I’m telling you. Though, not very fresh,” he frowns.

“And this?” Armie leads him to the next painting.

“Tenderloin,” Tim looks at another chunk of meat on a plate. “Definitely. That’s how it’s cut. It comes from the top of the animal, behind the ribs,” Tim tries to show him. “Filet mignon right here for you,” Tim nods.

“And this?”

“Just a chicken,” Tim shrugs.

“You sure it’s not a goose?”

“Goose? You think I won’t recognize a goose?” Tim scoffs. “Grandpa Gui has geese, I can recognize them without feathers.” He looks around, then points to another picture. “This is goose. You see?”

Armie doesn’t, to him it’s another carcass on a beautifully depicted plate, but what he sees is what he was looking for – a spark of interest in Tim’s eyes.

A spark of life amid all this stillness.

So this is how it goes from then on – Tim leading him from painting to painting and describing the goods. All those ribs, sirloins, briskets, hams, how they are carved, whether they are any good. All those geese, turkeys, ducks, partridges, grouses and pigeons. All those plums, peaches, apricots, apples and grapes.

“Oh,” Tim looks closely, “this is peacock. I’ve never seen a cooked peacock. Looks like a hen.”

Armie in his turn never thought about this as peacock, though, it’s mentioned in the title. He’s always looked at the silver carafe in the corner, the meticulousness and talent it took to show every little shadow that candle light created upon it.

But now he doesn’t look at the carafe or the bird, he looks at Tim and listens to Tim. And he feels like smiling.

“Do you have a favorite here?” he asks Tim when they finish walking around the room.

“Yes,” Tim nods and surprises Armie once again when he leads him back to a painting with a huge cabbagehead for a centerpiece. “This is beautiful. Fresh, too. Fresh and pretty. And cheerful.”

“Cheerful?” Armie smiles.

“Yes. Like a hug,” Tim starts waving his arms imitating opening cabbage leaves. “You see? Like a hug. Cheerful. We need one of these for our kitchen.”

“A cabbage?”

“No, not necessarily a cabbage. Something with fruit, a lot of fruit. And doves.”

“Cooked?”

“No, not cooked. Some were alive here. They look nice. Doves, cherries and peaches – they go well together. Let’s buy one.”

Tim is not wrong, it’s not all abattoir here, there are doves indeed and peaches. More suitable for a drawing room in an English family estate than for their modern kitchen, but who cares, Armie thinks. Even if it was a cabbagehead, who cares, if it makes Tim’s eyes sparkle.

“Yes, let’s do it,” he says. “There are several art shops nearby, we can find something similar.”

“Great! We have an empty wall over the table, we’ll put it there,” Tim smiles.

“Ok, we can stop by a shop on our way home and you’ll see if you like something.”

“We are going home?” Tim frowns.

“You’re exhausted,” Armie touches his cheek.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Tim shakes his head.

“Tim, we’ve been here for about three hours. Your brain is at its limits. You shouldn’t spend in an art museum more than forty minutes at a time - you stop seeing things, it all blurs. You’re tired, trust me. Even if you don’t feel it now, you’ll notice it later. Look at those kids,” Armie points surreptitiously to a group of teenagers who follow a guide into the room.

“She lost them about an hour ago. Look at the eyes – they are glassy. They look stoned, because they are, in a way. She can do a cartwheel and they won’t be impressed, because it’s just too much,” Armie sighs. “And they are going to see the nudes next, but even that won’t produce much of a reaction.”

“Nudes?” Tim perks up.

“Next time,” Armie replies drily.

“I remember them vaguely,” Tim smiles.

“Yes, vaguely. Because they drowned you in portraits and landscapes first. We’re going home now, I’m tired too.”

Then Tim does something unexpected, like always. He comes up and wraps Armie in his arms. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“For bringing me here.”

“Thank you for coming with me,” Armie hugs him.

“I’ll make you a pizza tonight. Real Sicilian,” Tim sighs. “And you’ll blow me.”

“Oh no,” Armie laughs. “That was for the opera.”

“Didn’t I earn any points? I’ve been good,” Tim whines.

“You were,” Armie smiles.

“A handjob then?”

Armie is again considering it. “Massage,” he says finally.

“Hm… Well, massage is better than nothing. Will you blow me for a musical?”

“No, I hate them…”

“Ballet?”

“Massage.”

“So what, ballet and painting…”

“Gentlemen,” they hear and Armie sees a woman in a neat white blouse with a tag “Museum Protection Staff” on her chest. “Please, no PDA. You’ve been hugging for the last three minutes,” she frowns disapprovingly.

“Oh, I’m very sorry,” Armie mumbles.

“Newlyweds,” Tim smiles.

“Congratulations, but please – not on Museum grounds.”

“You have pictures here of people raping each other. What’s wrong with hugging?” Tim stands arms akimbo.

The woman, probably a veteran of such confrontations, doesn’t bother to reply, only looks at Armie severely. “I’ll call the security, if necessary.”

“And you are?” Tim lifts his brow.

“I’m sorry…” Armie looks at the woman apologetically. “We were just leaving. We apologize.” He takes Tim by the hand and starts pulling him away.

Tim isn’t easy to lead, because he turns back several times and looks at the woman menacingly. Armie sighs and continues pulling.

They descend those majestic stairs again when Tim suddenly stops. Armie pauses two steps below him and turns around.

“Are you embarrassed?” Tim asks and Armie sees that he is blushing.

“About what?”

“What I said… About… Did I embarrass you?” Tim looks down.

“With that woman?”

“Yes, and…” Tim starts tugging his tie again, “and in general.”

“In general?”

“It’s just…” Tim looks at him helplessly, looking for words. “Armie, I take it seriously. I take _you_ seriously. I mean I joke and I don’t know anything about…” he looks around and blushes harder, “…all this. But I… It’s important to me, I promise.”

Armie looks at his tie, at his blush, at his fangs now piercing the lips worriedly.

“I know,” he smiles. “I know that you take it seriously.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t understand it,” Tim swallows nervously. “I mean, cabbage… It’s stupid, right? What I said? But if you give me books, I will read them, I promise. I’ll try to… I’ll understand. If I figured out the tax code in Nevada, I can… I will try…”

“Tim, I didn’t go to college,” Armie interrupts him. “Did you know that?”

“No…”

“Well, I didn’t. I finished high school, came to New York and worked in the morgue for some time, registering cadavers. I worked as a janitor, too. As a stevedore. Then I went to night school, where I met Gina and she liked my sketches, so she hired me,” Armie thinks for a second, then continues. “I don’t have an education people brag about at parties, I have no pedigree to speak of, my father’s family became relatively famous for inventing some addition to a harrow which had become useless since then and didn’t bring any money, though they patented it.

“First time I came to a museum I thought Renaissance was a religious term. Third time I came I couldn’t make myself cross the threshold, I was so embarrassed. Then I started reading, then I went to school, where I sat beside others like me – janitors and nurses and garbage collectors - who wanted to learn, who wanted to become something more. Since then I learned and believe firmly in one thing – there is nothing _to_ _understand_ about art. You can only feel it.

“We always say that it’s about beauty, but I don’t think it is. I think all art is about pain, sometimes dull, sometimes ugly, sometimes furious human pain. If you look long enough, you’ll see it – between the lines, between the notes, between the shades of red and gray, there will be pain. It’s different, because the artists were different, but it’s always there. Find it, capture it – and you won’t need explanations or lectures. You will understand it, if you wish, because you will feel it. This pain is the only ingredient that separates art from haberdashery.

“So, in sum, no, I’m not embarrassed. Not about the woman, not about the cabbage. Not about anything. I loved being here with you today, I loved listening to you. I never looked at that cabbage before, but I think you’re right, it does look sort of cheerful,” he touches Tim’s cheek lightly.

“But you say it’s about pain?” Tim frowns.

“Well, we don’t know the story of the artist. Probably it was meant to be his best friend’s cut off head. They used to cut off heads left and right at the time…”

“Gods almighty!” Tim’s eyes grow big. “No, we don’t need it for our kitchen then!”

“We can find something else,” Armie smiles. “Peaches and pigeons are usually safe.”

Tim looks at him for a long time, then, “Can we kiss here?” he whispers.

“We can, but we shouldn’t,” Armie replies.

“Alright, then let’s go home. I’ll kiss you there.”

“Ok.”

They descend those stairs hand in hand again. Both tired, but Armie suspects, both a little happy.

Small steps.

Every day.

 

<> 

Tim is making pizza. Armie was invited to participate but decided to abstain. Sometimes he helps Tim – usually washing something like fruits and vegetables. He doesn’t like touching raw meat, though, and Tim just rolls his eyes and does it himself.

Now he is sitting and watching Tim arranging tomatoes and anchovies on a square piece of dough, because _sfincione_ is square, he was told, and no mozzarella, that was New World addition – Sicilian original is more austere.

Sometimes Armie wants to ask where Tim learned so much about Sicilian food, but then reconsiders - who knows what relatives might emerge.

This ginger guy that arranged their wedding comes from the Irish branch of the family, which started from a scandal and a divorce. Some grand-grandfather smuggled wine and powder into Ireland and ended up impregnating two locals, one of them a girl. Hence, the scandal.

There was a duel or a brawl, one father wanted blood, the other - money. So grandpa married the girl, supported the guy and drowned himself in whiskey, missing his native land, just across the channel, but unreachable now – he couldn’t swim and two fathers-in-law took shifts in guarding the boats.

This way the Chalamets acquired an O’Connor branch, who shortened it to Connor after migrating to the States.

“I wanted to be a cop, you know?” Tim smiles. “Always looked at Logan, Paddy’s dad, and wanted to be one.”

“Why didn’t you?” Armie asks, snatching a slice of tomato from the plate.

“Shoo,” Tim moves the plate away. “Why I didn’t?” he repeats. “Because I was 5’9” at the time and it was unlikely I’d be any taller.”

“Is it a criterion? Height?” Armie is surprised.

“Well, not officially. Same as with betas and girls – they accept them, say lovely things, but in reality they are still bitter about it. Ten years ago we still had police academies that didn’t allow omegas to apply,” Tim shrugs. “And I wanted to be a detective. Watched all those TV shows, saw myself as one of them.”

“You didn’t even try to go for it?”

“Oh, I tried. I busted my ass, got to 5’11” finally and then Uncle Logan came to have a friendly talk, and what he said was basically – don’t bother, big boys club there,” Tim rolls his eyes. “He knew the system from top to bottom, saw other guys going through it. What he said was, you’d get a desk job for the rest of your life. No one would want you as a partner. You can turn yourself inside out, but every time there is a promotion, there will be other names there.

“You’ll never get to Murder, because they are the elite, but if you’re smart enough they’ll stuff you into Vice, where you’ll see so much fucked-up shit you’ll be tempted to blow your brains out by thirty. Then you’ll quit, then you’ll start drinking, because a cop is a cop and is useless for anything else, then you’ll go back. You’ll hate every day of it and you won’t be able to live without it.

“So, _Timmy,_ ” Tim tries to imitate, “if you’re good at anything else, go and do anything else.” He looks up and smiles, “I was good at statistics.”

“But you wanted to be a cop…” Armie looks at him sadly.

“Yes, I wanted to be a cop,” Tim pauses and reaches for dried oregano. “And I am, just a different kind. Desk job, but bigger fish. _They_ catch guys who steal a TV, _we_ catch the ones who steal media empires. I’m not on that level yet, of course, but by thirty-thirty five…” He looks up, “We have our own elite, people who go after offshore money, and that’s, Armie, that’s where the real game starts. That’s power.”

“But this is dangerous, Tim.”

“Don’t worry, they don’t kill accountants,” Tim chuckles.

Armie doesn’t see the humor.

On the street your life can be worth 18 bucks in your pocket, but when it’s billions we are talking about, your life is worth nothing, absolutely nothing.

Accountants? They fuck presidents dry there.

If the game is real, so is the blood, he thinks, and an ice cube of fear starts growing in his chest.

It is so fleeting and fragile, what they have. It can end so suddenly, he can lose him so easily, his little alpha. And that’s precisely it - Tim _is_ an alpha and an alpha is always a hunter.

And a hunter, a hunter is always a killer.

So he will go to the deepest part of the jungle, and there is nothing you can do about it.

There is nothing but here and now.

Take it while you have it, Armie reminds himself.

Later never comes.  

 

<> 

“How is your back?” Armie asks, finishing his wine. The sfincione turned out to be delicious – Tim’s oven starts bringing return on the investment.

“Ah, fi…” Tim starts, then smiles broadly. “Killing me today. Just killing. All this culture…”

“Well, then… I guess it’s time for your prize.”

“It definitely is,” Tim smiles.

“Ok, I… I’ll take the towels and…” He looks at their plates and glasses. “I’ll wash it tomorrow then.”

“I can do it, while you’re preparing,” Tim suggests.

“It’s not much to prepare. Just some towels… We have olive oil, good,” he looks at the bottle left on the kitchen island.

“You’ll use olive oil?” Tim is surprised.

“Any oil will do. It doesn’t have to be anything special. You can easily wash it off later.”

“Ok. Well, then I’ll do the dishes and…”

“Yes,” Armie nods. “Yes…”

He is actually pretty nervous, he realizes, not only because he hasn’t done a massage for a long time, but also because it’s a lot of touching. Even though they sleep together, live together, kiss sometimes, not much touching was involved until this point.

Also he saw Tim’s ass.

And now he’ll sit on it.

Just a thought.

“Yes, do the dishes,” he repeats and goes to the bathroom, taking olive oil with him.

First order of business, he tells himself, picking one big towel and two smaller ones, stop pretending that you don’t want it too. Because you do. It’s a big question whose prize it is, if we’re being honest for a change.

Second, forget about his ass. Prostate massage is out of your skill set, anyway.

Third, do some reading about prostate massage. You never know…

Fourth, don’t sit on his ass, you’ll break his spine.

And fifth, yes, concerning the… Just forget about it.

Armie spreads the towel on the bed and waits. He washed his hands, but they seem sweaty again. He takes the oil and pours some on his palm.

Maybe some music?

No, what music? It’s not a salon here, and he doesn’t mean to create _the mood_. And his hands are now covered in oil, so it’s too late anyway.

Hush the lights? No, why? And what next, candles and petals? I’m going to rub his back, that’s all. As they say, what ships we build will define the war we’ll have. By that logic, massage is a bar brawl, nothing more important.

Stop preparing for nuclear apocalypse.

Yes.

Armie sits on the bed in front of the towel and waits.

I shouldn’t have asked him to wash the dishes. To hell with the dishes, my palms are sweating again, just what is needed – to rub him in your sweat. Disgusting.

And what if I don’t remember how to do it? I remember basic movements, but… What if I tear a muscle or cripple him inadvertently.

You break it – you buy it.

If I cripple him, then no divorce.

Oh, that was a bad idea, this massage. He is so small, I can squash something if I’m not careful. Something like a kidney or a liver. You can live with one kidney, though…

But if I crack his ribs, then… then the divorce will be expensive. And all Irish cops in town will be on my ass.

No, I shouldn’t sit on him. I’ll sit on the bed.

Yes.

Also, there is that part of me, that whorish part, that doesn’t like the word “divorce” anymore, so maybe I should break his spine after all. As a guarantee.

No, the truth is that I want to sit on him, small or not. I’ll try it, test the waters. If he breaks, then…

“Ok, I’m here,” Tim opens the door.

“Lie down, take off your clothes,” Armie says immediately. “No, first… Not clothes, t-shirt, your t-shirt… And lie down. On the towel. Yes.”

Tim smirks and starts peeling off his t-shirt, takes time to do it, it looks like, or Armie is just giving it more attention than is strictly necessary.

Nice nipples…

What a thought!

“Lie down. On your stomach.” Armie gives him another rolled towel. “For your forehead.”

Tim lies down and sighs.

Armie thinks about sitting on him.

Thinks some more.

Then straddles his thighs.

Then gets off, because he forgot to tuck another towel in Tim’s jeans to prevent the oil from getting on them.

Eager, are we?

He tucks the towel, he straddles Tim again.

“You ok?” he asks.

“Fine,” Tim moves one shoulder.

And here it is again – naked Tim, dove gray towel. Just flash back after flash back.

I will never look at my bathroom wall the same way again, Armie knows. My conscience won’t allow it.

“Ok,” he pours some more oil on his palms, then a couple of drops on Tim’s back. “Ok…”

He places his hands on Tim’s waist and… yes, it’s tiny, his huge hands encompass it easily. Broad back, but so breakable, so fragile.

He moves forward, spreading the oil from lower back to shoulders. Tim sighs again.

“If I press too strongly, tell me,” Armie tells him. “If you can’t breathe… or something.”

“I can barely feel it,” Tim replies. “Oh, just here…” he mumbles, when Armie reaches his neck. “Squeeze a bit. Oh, yes…”

Pretty soon Armie realizes that what he is doing has nothing in common with massage per se – he is just touching, every rib, every curve, every hollow, traces the river bed of Tim’s spine, finds another birthmark and touches it too, gets to the shoulders and follows them down the arms to the wrists.

So beautiful.

So fragile.

He touches Tim’s sides, more curiosity than any curative purpose, and Tim squirms a bit.

Armie puts him palm square on Tim’s back and closes his eyes, starts hearing the blood coursing under the skin, the heart beating in the depth.

So precious.

He traces the shoulder blades, imagines wings, imagines mountains rising out of the plain. He leans closer and feels the warmth touching his face, the breathing life emanating from the body.

Mine, he thinks and it doesn’t make him nervous or afraid, only quietly, quietly happy. This is mine. My territory, my domain, my dreamland.

My miracle.

My once-in-a-lifetime.

He tastes olive oil on his lips and tongue and knows that he stopped just exploring and admiring. Tim’s curls touch the tip of his nose and he breathes deeper, kisses again, covering Tim with his body, trapping his small frame under his own.

Tim breathes in and suddenly turns over, his eyes, clear and huge, blossoming an inch from Armie’s own.

Armie would have said something, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t think there is anything to be said.

Nothing to be said when Tim’s arms wrap around his neck and tug him down, when Tim’s lips find his, when Tim’s fangs capture his lower lip gently, when he hears that subterranean thunder rocking Tim’s chest.

Tim uses his own elbow to flip them over.

“I love this smell,” Tim looks down at him and smiles.

“Oil?”

“You. Nervous and horny. You,” and he kisses Armie again.

One hand going behind his back, he takes Armie by the wrist and pins his hand above his head, then does the same with the other one, making a cross. Holding one wrist, trapping both hands.

Armie looks up.

“Shhh… It’s ok,” Tim whispers and softly bites his jaw. His free hand slides down and stops at Armie’s belly, just above his groin, and he starts stroking, the butt of his hand pressing first slightly, then with more force.

Armie feels the dull peculiar pain inside him, right there, rising from beneath and meeting Tim’s hand.

Then Tim suddenly presses harder and Armie arches his back, gasping. But he can’t really move, because Tim’s hold on his wrist gets stronger.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” Tim breathes hard. “You’re magnificent. Mine…” His hand lands on Armie’s belt buckle and he looks at him, “Yes?”

Yes, Armie thinks and says so.

Yes.

Tim smiles softly and starts opening his belt one-handedly, then, mission accomplished, he rubs his own back and smirks, “Oil. How timely.”

Armie closes his eyes.

Tim growls. “No, look at me. I want you to look at me. I want you to know. Your alpha. I want you to know,” Tim says and his hand dives into Armie’s jeans. “Mine.”

“This,” he cups Armie’s balls and squeezes.

“This,” he strokes his cock slowly.

“This,” he reaches down between his cheeks and Armie shudders from head to toe.

“This,” Tim kisses his lips again. “And everything in between. Mine.”

Armie doesn’t know if the lights dimmed or Tim’s eyes became darker. He breathes heavily, blood pulsing in his neck and wrists. He looks at Tim’s lips, his fangs, his neck, he feels his grip above his head, his slow firm touch below.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes. You too.”

“I?” Tim lifts his brow and his hold becomes tighter.

“Yes,” Armie manages. “You… you’re mine, too.”

“Am I?” Tim bites his jaw. “Am I?”

“Yes. Yes! Oh, hell… Yes, mine.”

“Feisty today?” Tim smirks, his hand not stopping for a second. “Look at you,” he growls. “Just look at you. Some balls you have, omega mine,” and he demonstrates.

“Yes…”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“People fight for their property. People die for it. Am I yours?”

“Yes... yes...”

“Then fucking do it!”

No fireworks, no explosions. It feels like a little death – darkness, heat and _I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe_ for a second, his life force bursting out of him and leaving him exhausted, sweaty, boneless. He feels all his limbs relaxing and softening, his heart drowning him in the white noise of his blood.

His fists open, his eyes close.

Gentle fog, caressing, tender, with the streaks of silver.

Tim’s forehead against his temple.

Tim’s calming breath in his ear.

Tim’s scent, everywhere, inside and outside.

Part of his blood.

Now.

Always.

His alpha covers him with his body and growls softly.

“Yours,” someone whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had a good time reading this.
> 
> Thank you!


	10. Chapter 10

Sunday is a sun day.

Armie wakes up to a room full of lemony yellow light, as if trapped inside a shiny capsule, suspended somewhere far, far away from New York and its chaos.

His head on Tim’s shoulder, he pulls up a bit and buries his nose in his neck, breathes in and smiles.

He inhales deeply, fills himself with the scent – his nose sliding from the ear to the chin, and back to the ear. He can’t describe the smell, only the feeling and the feeling is the best in the world, the feeling of finding something lost, of recovering a treasure. A miraculous feeling, a feeling of wonder.

“So much sun,” he remembers Liz’s words suddenly. “So much sun inside of you.”

She was right. He couldn’t understand then how right she was. The sun in your chest that doesn’t burn, but glows, but fills you to the brim with light and laughter and poetry.

He can’t stop smiling, can’t stop himself from trying to get closer, as if hoping to burrow under someone else’s skin, to hide there, to live there, to drown, to disappear.

Melted gold on the walls, the quietness, the smell, the warmth of Tim’s body beside him.

I’ve never, never thought it could be like this, Armie thinks. I never thought you could find it in someone else, that someone else can give it to you. That someone can make time and pain seem irrelevant, seem distant.

I never thought it was possible to be this happy, and that it could be so simple – that happiness can be a Sunday morning by your lover’s side, that happiness is tangible and audible and breathable, that you can be incased in it like in amber, a thing apart, a separate being, invincible to memory and darkness.

He remembers last night, Tim’s gentleness, the aftermath, so little said and so much understood suddenly. And how much Tim wanted to look at him, just look at him, and how he struggled, how it felt painful to be looked at, how he wanted to crawl in a ball and hide under the blanket.

Tim understood.

He cleaned them up, unmade the bed and turned down the light. They were lying in the darkness, silent and together, and just like now Armie wanted to get him closer, closer, closer, wanted to imprint himself on Tim’s body.

He was so grateful for silence and darkness, he needed only the smell, the feeling of those hands in his hair, gentle and calming, the quiet breath, the quiet heartbeat.

No words.

It took him the whole night to find words and they turned out to be borrowed – so much sun inside of you – but at least he can understand it now. At least he has a definition, however vague, of what is going on with him.   

That feeling of lightness he’d been chasing all his life, that ethereal grace all omegas possess but him, it has come to him finally. He feels small, delicate, no longer a ponderous clumsy mule among translucent gazelles.

Someone can hold me, can press me to his chest and make me feel breakable and helpless. For a second, just for one second in life it’s such a pleasure to feel helpless, to allow someone to take care of you, to think for you, to let you rest.

“Darling,” he remembers Tim’s voice in the dark, “my darling…”

I can be called that, Armie can’t help smiling again, someone can call me that and mean it. There is a person in this world who looks at me and thinks this word because nothing else comes to mind, because “darling” is enough to express the shapeless enormity of us. 

I thought I would die alone, he thinks. I still can, nothing is set in stone, but even if I do, in those last moments I’ll still have a drop of this sunny silence inside of me, this quiet tender joy of waking up on my lover’s chest. I’ll still have this knowledge that there was a person in this world made specifically for me, meant for me, that he existed.

Even if I am an aberration, there is someone who fits all my flaws. Someone who doesn’t see faults but features. Someone who doesn’t expect me to apologize for how I am.

My mate.

This is what it’s like to have a mate.

He hides his nose in Tim’s neck and wishes for time to stop, just for a second, for one lemony yellow second which might be the zenith of his life.

“Morning,” Tim murmurs sleepily, touches Armie’s forehead with his nose and inhales deeply.

“Morning,” Armie smiles.

“I don’t want to get up…”

“We’ll have to,” he replies, but only shifts the blanket to cover them more thoroughly.

“Oh no…” Tim groans, “another museum?”

“No,” Armie chuckles, “but it’s past 8. I don’t remember staying in bed past 8.”

“Then let’s stay in bed,” Tim presses him closer, “anyway, it’s required.”

“Required?”

“Newlyweds,” Tim yawns.

“Yes, we are,” Armie grins.

“Yes, we are.” Tim nods and glances at him. “Your neck is beautiful.”

“Meaning it’s a battlefield?” Armie touches it lightly and winces.

“A little bit of that, too. Unconditional surrender – sealed and signed. My name in capital letters all over it. I want my name written all over your body. In capital letters.”

“Like a tattoo?” Armie frowns.

“No,” Tim smirks, “like a brand. If I could, I’d brand my initials on your ass.”

“How fortunate that you can’t.”

“We can do something else.”

“No,” Armie says immediately.

He doesn’t expect to hear any sane idea, anyway. His husband is tragically out of step with the current century and all its civil rights achievements.

“Take my name,” Tim says quietly. “Change your name for mine. Officially.”

“No.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Chalamet? I don’t even know what it means. I won’t be called something, when I don’t understand if it’s an insult or a compliment. No.”

“It’s from the village in France – Chalamélas. It’s been there since the Crusades,” Tim says proudly.

“Wow!” Armie looks at him, impressed. “You know your family tree down to the Crusades?”

“Well, no…” Tim frowns.

“Then how do you know you have anything to do with that village?”

“We figured it out,” is a curt response.

“How?”

“We just did.”

“Let me guess - you opened the map, stumbled upon it and declared ownership.”

Tim looks at the ceiling.

“Ok, and what does these chalamelas mean?” Armie smirks.

“We’re not sure.”

“Aha. So it can be “whoresons,” for all you know?”

There is an outraged growl.

“Ok, ok, sorry,” Armie laughs.

“What it means, what it means…” Tim huffs. “My boss is a Siskin and he doesn’t complain. Who knows what _that_ means?”

“It’s a bird, actually.”

Tim looks at him incredulously. “Well, look at it - can’t recognize a goose on a painting, but he suddenly knows a fucking siskin!”

“I wouldn’t recognize it either,” Armie admits. “I have no idea how it looks like.”

“Like a typical douchebag – drives a Porsche and steals office supplies,” Tim rolls his eyes. “So, wait, if I were a Siskin, you would take it?”

“I wouldn’t take it, if you were a Condor or an Eagle,” Armie assures him.

Tim thinks for a second.

“Let’s hyphenate,” he suggests.

“Like Hammer-Chalamet?”

“Like Chalamet-Hammer.”

“No.”

“Why?” Tim whines.

“Why does your name come first?”

“I’m the alpha.”

“And I’m the suffix?” Armie looks at him.

“It’s a compromise.”

“No.”

“Let’s hyphenate.”

“No,” Armie sighs, “I don’t want to hyphenate with you.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

“I want my name. I like it, I told you…” Then he remembers something, “Your mom is a Flender!”

“Don’t drag my mom into this,” Tim growls again.

“Is your dad a Flender?” Armie doesn’t give up.

Tim is silent

“Well, I want to be like your mom,” Armie nods.

“A Flender?” Tim looks at him skeptically.

“No, not a Flender, I want… I want to be my own person. Like your mom.”

“Like my mom!” Tim exclaims. “You’re _exactly_ like my mom. Her own person can’t boil an egg without my dad.”

“Why this sudden preoccupation with names, Tim?”

“It will solidify our union,” Tim proclaims.

“Our union is pretty solid as it is.”

“Your wife took your name when you married.”

“No, actually she didn’t,” Armie chuckles.

“Armand Chalamet sounds… grand,” Tim tries again.

“Tim, I was born a Hammer, I’ll die a Hammer,” Armie kisses his shoulder. “Nothing ostentatious, but mine.”

Tim starts thinking. “Let’s trade,” he says after a moment. “What do you want?”

“For my name?” Armie looks at him surprised. “Nothing.”

“You’ll give it up for free?” Tim frowns.

“I won’t trade my name for yours, period. Your name is a hotel clerk’s nightmare - no, it’s “c”, not “s”, and there is a “t” there, but you don’t hear it,” Armie imitates. “No. Forget it.”

“We’ll hyphenate the kids then,” Tim declares.

“Whose kids?”

“Mine.”

“Yeah, you do it,” Armie chuckles. “Hyphenate them.”

“I have a great name,” Tim insists. “Stellar pedigree. My family spread its DNA all over the globe.”

“How generous of them…”

“I come from the dynasty of merchants and sea travelers.”

“You mean the grandpa who smuggled booze across the channel?”

Tim stares stormily at the ceiling.

“Tim?” Armie looks at him.

No answer.

Armie kisses his jaw, then rubs his nose on Tim’s neck.

“You do have a great name. A wonderful name. It sounds very noble. I’m sure there are tons of history buried there.”

“There are,” Tim replies to the ceiling, “and you don’t want them.”

“Tim, can’t you leave me something of my own?”

“But it’s not like I want to take something from you,” Tim looks at him. “I just… I would be proud if you had my name.”

“You want ownership, admit it,” Armie sighs. “You want an analogue of ‘I was here’ stamped on me.”

“Yes,” Tim says without batting an eyelash. “I want everything.”

“And you have it,” Armie tells him seriously. “You _have_ everything. Tim, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t run away. I won’t disappear. You don’t need to… You don’t need to feel insecure.”

“I don’t feel insecure,” Tim mumbles, then glances at him. “You just… you scare me, you know?” He says seriously.

“I scare _you?”_ Armie smiles.

“I suspect you’re more than I can lose and survive. An injury incompatible with life, as they say.”

“And that after one handjob?” Armie looks at him.

“Fuck you! I’m trying to be romantic!” Tim says indignantly.

“As a coroner,” Armie laughs. “I told you I worked in a morgue. There were a lot of latent romantics there.”

“Don’t want to lose you,” Tim  says suddenly and wraps him in his arms protectively. “Don’t want to. Don’t…”

“Tim, you won’t lose me,” Armie kisses his chin, “and you don’t need my name as a guarantee.”

But he knows the feeling, however unfounded it is, this suspicion deep down that nothing good can last, that at some moment, when you least expect it, it will be taken away from you – no rhyme or reason, just snatched from your trusting fingers and carried away.

Only now exists, Armie reminds himself, only this second.

You can never repeat a single day, a single minute.

This sun, this room, this morning, you and me, the way we are today – just a beautiful picture painted in water, like every other life.

Can’t waste it, he inhales deeply, can’t waste it.

“I have a surprise for you,” Tim says quietly after a long moment, his hand stroking Armie’s head.

“Branding iron for my ass?”

“No,” Tim smiles, “but it’s hot.”

 

<> 

Sunday is a sun day, Armie thinks again, looking at a mountain of golden grains in a huge round bowl that a young waiter sets in the middle of the table for them.

Moroccan couscous.

Tim’s surprise is a small basement restaurant, hidden under a consignment shop in a narrow littered alleyway. One of those places that you won’t find in tourist guides, and probably for the best. Armie looks around and doesn’t think they fancy strangers here.

 It’s very unpretentious with its concrete unadorned walls, unclothed wooden tables, and dusty windows, sloppily covered with cheap ornate screens. Mix of fiddle and zither - slow, almost hypnotic - flows from a small cassette player in the corner and is interrupted by the sounds of hissing oil and banging of plates in a nearby kitchen. Air is heavy and dense, full of unfamiliar spices and words said maybe in Arabic, maybe in Greek.

Underground as an underworld.

Armie searches for some utensils and finds none.

With your right hand, Tim clicks his tongue. You eat couscous with your right hand. Don’t embarrass me here with your forks.

Armie wants to protest, but then looks around at the men and women here – some in overalls, some in suits, all not giving a damn - and tentatively tries to follow Tim, dips his hand into the bowl and gets a pinch of couscous.

Tim tells him that they have another place in Brooklyn, more expensive and flashier, that had been “discovered” a couple of years ago and since then ruined. The chef, Nabil, refused to cook for such a big crowd and moved here, where he could still prepare quality food for a limited clientele.

A place for the people who came to eat, not to brag about it.

“How do you know about it?”

“My dad knows him, Nabil. I have no idea how,” Tim shrugs, “but my dad knows all sorts of useful people.”

“Can you cook it?” Armie points to the bowl.

“Not like that,” Tim smiles. “You have to know the culture. I can only imitate, and not very well. Enjoy it.”

Real Maghrebian couscous, millennia of history: from nomadic Berbers to Moors in Spain, from pugnacious Turks to melancholy Moroccans.

Imagine black sky, Tim tells him, dancing flame, strange music, imagine the desert, cold at night, ruthless during the day, imagine the solitude they faced, those people who invented it, long before New York existed.

Imagine New York doesn’t exist.

Only you and me.

And a bowl of couscous.

Imagine the long suffering white of Dover, the burnt brown of Naples, the succulent jade of Lençóis, the piercing azure of Kefalonia. You say I have it all – I want to share it with you, the whole world. I want you to bathe in its beauty and colors, I want you to forget your stifling monochrome for a carnival of lights.

Imagine that we don’t need language to talk.

Imagine that eyes are enough.

One day I will take you to Normandy, Tim probably tells him. We’ll drink cold beer, smoke _Gauloises_ , eat oysters straight from the pond, and listen to the local fishermen badmouthing the British. Then I’ll lead you to the barn and make love to you in the hay, and the whole village will know.

I will teach you to whisper my name in French.

I will teach you to scream it in patois.

Armie doesn’t know if he really hears it all, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe these are just words he longed for all his life – imagine that you’re not alone in this world, on this overcrowded planet that can seem the loneliest place in the universe; that there is someone to share it with, really share, without shame, without hiding.

Imagine that you don’t need to blush and apologize every time you do something wrong or simply clumsy, like spilling couscous all over the table on the way to your mouth, like looking too old to be sitting here with this young man in a hoodie.

Imagine that no one gives a damn, if you are too old or awkward or shy.

How scary it is to try to live without fear, but just imagine that you can.

Again and again he catches himself thinking that he’s never knew it like this. This feeling of weightlessness and awe, the sudden realization that everything, anything is possible if only you can dare to reach for it.

What is it? he asks himself. It feels like drunkenness, like euphoria, like a dream.

Like fire.

Like sun.

So much sun.

He is still within this cocoon when they leave the place. Tim pays, winks to the waiter, takes Armie by the hand and leads him back to the light of day. On the street he brings his hand to his mouth – you missed some oil, he says, I’ll help.

Armie looks at him, licking his fingers one by one, in the middle of the street, and forgets how to breathe, forgets that New York exists, that there was life before this moment.

What is it? he asks again desperately. What is happening to me? Why is it so different from everything I ever felt before?

I was in love, I was married, I know what it’s like to lick someone’s fingers, I felt an alpha’s bite, I know how skin thirsts for skin, I know desire, I know self-abandonment…

I’ve read so much, and I never thought that his tongue on my fingers is impossible for words, that this simple act will make my throat dry, will make me want to drop on my knees and look at him, from below, half-worship, half-fear.

There was something missing with me and Liz, he realizes, something simple but essential. We thought deep mutual understanding and common past were enough, and we never had this. We shared a bed for thirteen years and we never knew this viscous eroticism that separates friendship from love, this blood-clotting languor.

We never knew passion, he thinks suddenly, its torment and bliss, its spine-wrecking, skin-scalding agony and ecstasy. We respected and studied each other’s bodies, but never craved them to the point of explosive cruelty which only passion can bring.

Liz would have never said _I want to brand you_ , half-joking, half-serious, and I never expected her to.

But he licks my fingers and I want him to throw me down, right here on the sidewalk, and open my veins and drink my blood, and I never dreamt that such images would go through my head and rock my body like seismic waves.

I never knew how carnal, how fleshy it is.

It is all scarlet, carmine, crimson.

All incarnadine…

…to black.

And friendship can know black, but never red.  

That bloody queen with her Calais - that’s how Armie pictured his love for Liz: if you open me, the slimy, ugly shell of my body, you’ll find a beautiful pearl inside; labor of time, patience and perseverance – a magnificent pearl, smooth, perfect and cold.   

The juices of my body, its yearnings and pain turned into a gem, flawless and lifeless.   

But passion has no use for pearls – too polite and reserved - passion is all rubies, rubies, rubies; in excess, over the top, in your face; tacky, raunchy and coarse.

Passion is all meat, no metaphysics.

A young girl, won and lost in cards, her breath smelling of wine, her breasts ravaged by a dozen mouths, running through the streets of a city burning in her name; too wild to be forgiven and too brave to appeal to gods.

It is vulgar and heathen.

It is licking fingers in the street.

 

<> 

Back at home, still drenched in blood and sunshine, his body is burning up, baking the heart inside. He still can’t get back from that moment, the eyes finally opened and blinded by the light.

Sensory overload.

Sensual overload.

The only thing he knows instinctively is that he needs to be close to the body, so he follows Tim from room to room, trying to be stealthy and failing.

He thinks he can breathe Tim in from a distance.

He thinks he sees billions of air molecules colliding with that body and flying apart.

He doesn’t want to talk, just to be close and look.

If Tim notices his strangeness, he doesn’t say anything. He’s been silent for a long time, like yesterday, when he wrapped Armie in his blanket, pulled him close and let them breathe quietly together until they fell asleep.

Maybe Tim understands that it’s another of those moments, where Armie needs to process, to digest. Maybe he hears the tectonic plates of Armie’s soul moving torturously, tearing apart the known landscape. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk either.

They migrate silently to the kitchen. Tim switches on his small TV in the corner and starts preparing coffee.

Armie sits at the table and watches his hand turning the handle of a silvery grinder. The TV is murmuring something. Gold on the walls is rich sunset orange by now.

He looks and looks and looks – after months and words and battles, Tim transforming from an idea into flesh and blood in his kitchen. Something that Elizabeth, probably, never managed.

And Armie feels it happening to him too – this _what is it? what is it?_ – the embrace and celebration of his own flesh and reality. Mortality felt like never before, reminding _you’re alive, you’re alive_ like nothing else.

Tim’s arm continues moving hypnotically, his eyes on the screen, his heel stomping lightly the floor.

Armie watches.

He knows so much by now – the smell, the shape, the temperature, the weight, the smoothness of the skin, the firmness of muscles, the taste of the lips and the sharpness of bones.

He knows birthmarks and freckles.

He knows the roughness of his heels.

He knows that place under Tim’s ear, made just right to burrow your nose.

He knows the fangs.

He knows the bend of Tim’s neck when he is concentrating on something, thoughtful, far away.

He knows the body hidden by clothes.

He knows the words hidden by silence.

He can’t stop looking.

He imagines himself coming up to Tim, stopping his hand with his own and saying… nothing. Hoping Tim will understand, won’t demand the words, will look at him and know what to do – take him by the hand, lead him to the bedroom, take off his clothes and wrap him in his own naked body, because that is what Armie wants right now.

But Tim continues turning the handle and watching TV and seems totally oblivious.

“Make love to me,” Armie says suddenly, before he can think it through.

“Excuse me?” Tim glances at him and back to the screen.

“Make love to me,” Armie repeats urgently, using all the boldness this day brought him. “Today. Now,” he swallows. “Make love to me.”

“You mean…” Tim frowns.

“Yes. Yes, I mean right now.”

“Here?”

“Here?” Armie looks around. “No, not here, but…”

“How about some coffee first?” Tim suggests.

I’m not doing it right, Armie thinks. Communication is everything, I’m not communicating it right.

“Isn’t it what you want?” he tries again, while he still has courage to. “I thought, after yesterday… Don’t you want to…”

“I thought you wanted to wait…”

“Well, I… I’m not sure anymore,” Armie gets up. “Wait for what?”

“To make it special?” Tim says quietly

“You think it won’t be special now?”

“No, I…” Tim bites his lip. “But just like that, on a Sunday afternoon?… without… I mean, I wanted to do something… to…”

“Like some romantic dinner?”

“Well, yes… Didn’t you expect it?” Tim looks at him, unsure.

“Do we really need all this?”

“I…” Tim motions to the cupboard for some reason. Armie follows his gaze, goes and gets out a paper bag from the shelf. He looks inside and finds several candles there, together with a music CD.

“This is relaxation music,” he smiles. “You were going to put me to sleep?” He looks at Tim, but Tim is still avoiding him. “Tim, what is it? Are you nervous?”

“Aren’t you?” Tim finally looks at him.

“Yes, a bit,” Armie admits. “Well, a lot, but… Why would _you_ be nervous?”

“I am your alpha, I need to do it right. You have expectations. You must have expectations. And you probably expect, I don’t know, fireworks, something spectacular, something mindblowing…” he looks at Armie panicky. “And I push you, I know, all the time, I push and push and push… I just don’t think we should rush with anything,” he finishes lamely.

Armie didn’t expect this and the first thing he can think about is the worst thing he can think about.

“Tim, is it about what happened with my wife? What I told you?” he asks and braces himself for the blow.

“What?” Tim doesn’t understand.

“It happened during heat,” he makes himself say. “Right now I can control myself. I won’t hurt you, Tim…”

“No! What are you talking about? It has nothing to…”

“You’re scared, I understand,” Armie says sadly.

“Scared? I’m not…! Not of you!” Tim cries. “I just… I want it to be the best for you, and I don’t know how to do it. If I get carried away, I’ll ruin it, and I can, because it messes with my head, the way I want you. It brings out the worst in me – selfishness, possessiveness, jealousy. Like, this absolute asshole emerges who wants to snap his teeth at everyone and cry _mine, mine, don’t touch._

_“_ And you need… soft, tender. If I do something wrong, I’ll ruin it…”

“Maybe,” Armie says hesitantly, “maybe I don’t need tender. Maybe… I don’t want it.” He looks at Tim and smiles, “And I’m possessive too, if we are being honest. I get jealous. I don’t remember being this jealous before,” he chuckles. “And the waiters don’t make it easier.”

“What waiters?”

“All waiters flirt with you - Diego, this boy today…” he sighs. “Did you notice that he asked you four times about water? And he stared, from the counter, just devoured you with his eyes.”

“Well, it’s worse in my case. I’m amazed I haven’t decapitated this Santini yet. I’m constantly tempted,” Tim nods, “every evening when you return, smelling of him.”

“What Santini?”

“Your Rick from work,” Tim growls.

“My _Nick_ is _Delli Santi._ ”

“Won’t help him, if he isn’t careful.”

“Ok,” Armie smiles, “don’t take it as an encouragement, but there is a part of me that likes that side of you.”

“My inner asshole?”

“Your… assertiveness.”

“That’s encouraging,” Tim grins.

“You don’t need to be jealous,” Armie touches his cheek lightly.

“You don’t need to feel like an ogre,” Tim replies.

Yes, sometimes you just can’t help it, Armie thinks.

“Tim, I thought about it,” he says carefully, “I think we should spend my heats apart.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Tim…”

“Armie, I’m not a girl! You do realize that it’s different when two guys are involved?”

“I realize, but I can still hurt you. If I accept the passive role, I will fight, you know it. I will try to throw you off…”

“I can hold you,” Tim says firmly.

Armie wants to say something, but then just grabs Tim under armpits and lifts him on the tabletop. The effort doesn’t seem to cost him much.

“You can hold me?” he raises his brow.

Tim narrows his eyes, then swiftly catches him with his legs and draws him closer. He grabs him by the neck and tugs his head down to his own bared throat.

“This will help. You’re my mate, you’ll know my scent. You’ll know me. We won’t spend anything apart!” Then he thinks about something, “And don’t call it _passive,_ you’re an omega – you’re my other half, my _better_ half, not a cockholder.”

It makes Armie flinch.

“No,” Tim holds him firmly, “if you were ready to go to bed with me, you’re ready to talk about these things.”

Armie doesn’t reply.

“Alphas usually top,” Tim continues.

“Alphas always top.”

“Did they teach you that during sex ed?”

Armie nods.

“Do you know what they teach you in college?”

“What?”

“Forget everything you learned in school - it’s useless from now on.” He takes Armie’s face in his hands, “We’ll have our own rules. Sex is a democracy, everyone has a vote. You don’t like something, you vote against it.”

“But you’re an alpha…”

“And I’ll still be an alpha, if you fuck me,” Tim says simply.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” Armie replies quietly.

“We’ll figure it out,” Tim smiles.

“Have you ever… well, you know…”

“Have I ever been fucked?”

Armie just nods.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Jealous?” Tim smirks.

“Don’t know…”

“You do. Don’t want your alpha under anyone?” He looks thoughtful then, “I never wanted to, before. Don’t think I would have offered to anyone else. But we’ll have our own rules, you and me.”

They stay like this for a long time – Tim wraps all his limbs around him, his chin on Armie’s shoulder. They just breathe.

Armie watches the sunshine colliding with the coffee grinder and breaking into silver sparks.

“Yesterday…” he says quietly, “you didn’t push. I liked it, what you did… how you did it. And about the shower… when you said… face to the wall… that, I liked too.” He takes a deep breath and wills his voice to sound even, “I want to… I want to feel you… I want to know how it feels – you in my body. I want to know… I don’t need a special occasion.” He leans back and looks at Tim, “Do you remember what you said, right here, in this kitchen?”

“What?” Tim smiles.

“Nothing has to be perfect to be good,” Armie whispers. “We don’t need it to be perfect. We’re not perfect, Tim, but I am starting to think that it’s alright being just alright. Make… make love to me.”

He thinks it becomes even quieter, if that’s possible. Another second, interminable and too fleeting, another tiny piece in the mosaic of his life.

I don’t want to wait for anything, he wants to say. I’ve been waiting for so long, I’ve wasted so much time waiting. I don’t want to lose this day too.

“Alright…” Tim kisses him, “take me to bed then.”

“Like… like this?”

“I can’t carry you, but you can carry me,” Tim smiles. “Our own rules. Take me to bed – like this.”

The walk and the kiss start slowly, grow and shatter when Armie collides with some wall, doesn’t even know which one it is, and Tim sort of squawks and laughs, his back taking the brunt of the blow.

“Sorry,” Armie mumbles.

“Go, go, go…” Tim tugs his head back to him for another kiss.

“Yes, I…”

He tries to watch his step from then on, his heart beating with such force that he is surprised Tim, pressed to his chest, his arms and legs twining around him like lianas, doesn’t vibrate with it.

They have to pause at the bedroom door - Armie flying blind narrowly misses imprinting Tim into the doorframe, but Tim, squirming, breathing heavily, catches it in time and pushes them off. Armie has no time to think in what manner he wants to land and is saved from another agonizing decision by Tim’s damn bag - always on the floor, always in the way – he trips over it again and they collapse on the bed, where the mattress, true to advertisement, bounces them up again.

Tim pushes him on his back and straddles his lap immediately, then dives down and catches his lips in another long deep kiss. Armie tries to touch everything within reach, his hands roaming over ribs, back, shoulders. When Tim comes up for breath, he pulls him back - pure instinct, no logic.

“Like this?” Tim whispers, straightening up and looking down at him. “Like this?”

“Like this,” Armie manages. “Yes, like this…”

And Tim smiles and – in one quick move – rips his shirt from collar to the belt, buttons flying, fabric screaming.

“Always wanted to do it,” he smiles, and his palm glides from Armie’s belly to his throat. “Since that day in the street, when I smelled you, when you ruined my umbrella.” He leans down, cupping Armie’s face in his hands and kisses him quickly. “You owe me an umbrella.” He smiles.

“You owe me a shirt now.”

Armie watches him taking off his t-shirt and immediately drowning in thick saffron sun coming from the window.

“Take it all off,” Tim motions and starts undoing his belt. “All of it.”

Armie tries to get up on his elbow, his hand getting caught in the sleeve he pulls at it forcefully and rips it more. He looks down at Tim, tugging at his jeans, not stopping until he gets rid of them.

“You come prepared,” Tim smirks, looking at his underwear.

Yes, it’s new. Vanity won and Armie bought several new briefs last week, not that he was planning on something, just didn’t want to get caught off guard in checkered boxers again.

“Will look better on the floor,” Tim says and peels them off  too.

Armie closes his eyes, again on instinct, expecting something unpleasant, expecting disappointment and not wanting to see it, closes his eyes even knowing why he is doing it.

Old habits, they die hard.

They resist new skin that started growing over past wounds.

“So glorious,” he hears. “Incompatible with life, you. Damn incomparable.”

It takes insane amount of courage to open his eyes, to look at Tim, now undressing in the sunlight, to keep them open while Tim climbs on the bed and finally lowers his naked body on him, to keep and keep looking in that lucent green so close to his own shaking blue.

And it takes even more to bend his leg at the knee and hook it behind Tim’s back, opening himself to the unfamiliar and frightening heat coming from his alpha’s body.

He doesn’t want to feel embarrassment and does. It squeezes his throat and crushes his chest.

“You want it like this?” Tim whispers gently.

“Yes… Yes, like this,” he replies hoarsely.

Tim moves, and Armie accepts his weight, taking a deep breath and allowing himself to feel all that silky skin, cool in contrast to his own burning up body.

“So you like to hear it? Like the savage part?” Tim bites his ear. “I want to take you in the middle of Times Square with half the city watching. I dream about it. Dream about your bent back, bent for me. So strong, but submitting to me, to my touch.”

Armie closes his eyes again and sensation intensifies, everything becomes sharper – he feels Tim’s cock squirming on his belly and gasps, wants to press him closer, hold him tighter, wants the fangs sliding over his neck to pierce it. Suddenly he wants to rub Tim’s face all over his body, feel these smooth cheeks gliding over his shoulders, trapped between his thighs.

If Tim doesn’t feel the same way, they have a problem.

“Love your hair,” Tim mumbles from his chest. “Like fur, soft.”

“Bite… something,” Armie mumbles.

“Something?”

“Anything!”

Tim digs into his nipple. “Wike wis?”

“Yeah… umhm…”

“Anything else?” Tim lifts his head after a moment and licks his lips.

“No… I think… let’s…”

“How about this one?” Tim motions to his left nipple.

“No, enough of the overture,” Armie decides.

_Who knows where I’ll stuff your face otherwise…_

“Then?”

“Yes.”

“Ok,” Tim nods and his hand disappears between Armie’s legs. “No, shhh…” he whispers. “I won’t hurt you. Let me in.”

Armie grips his forearm.

“Have you ever done it?” Tim asks.

“Stuck a finger up my ass?” Armie swallows. “No, never crossed my mind.”

“Alright. It’s alright.” Tim pulls up and kisses his cheek. “Just relax, ok? And you don’t have to play possum, you know? It’s not a prostate exam.”

“What do you want me to… to do?” Armie arches his back.

“Whatever you want,” Tim smiles.

Armie’s imagination doesn’t fly higher than Tim’s ass, unsurprisingly, so that’s where his hand lands. He squeezes experimentally.

“So?” Tim inquires.

“Small,” Armie shrugs.

“I guess.”

“Soft,” he adds.

Tim narrows his eyes. “Pert you mean,” he says and Armie convulses again. “That’s three fingers.” Tim smirks. “Can you get your leg on my shoulder?”

“No,” Armie says firmly. “I won’t even try.”

“How does it feel?”

“Very weird,” Armie confesses. “Do you want me on my stomach?”

“Do you want to be on your stomach?”

Armie thinks about it. “No.”

“Then stay the way you are. Ok,” Tim moves and catches Armie’s knee in the crook of his arm and lifts. “Here it goes.”

“Here what goes?”

“You’ll know, trust me.”

“Oh, fucking hell!”

“Just the beginning…”

“Stop!”

“Already?”

They stop and look at each other. Armie’s nervousness gives way to annoyance.

“Ok,” he inhales deeply. “Just do it. Just… all at once.”

“You sure?” Tim frowns.

“Yes, anything is bett… FUCK. MY… FUCK _YOU!”_

“Shhh, shhh, shhh, that’s all. That’s all there is,” Tim strokes his cheek. “Your other leg, hook it behind my back.”

“I can’t…”

“You can,” Tim helps him.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” Armie breathes heavily. “You’re a mutant!”

“Think about something pleasant. Like furniture. You like furniture, think about that.”

“Furniture? Like curtain rods?”

“You’re doing very good,” Tim assures him. “Relax.”

“You relax!”

“I am relaxed.”

Armie opens his eyes – Tim doesn’t look flustered, bastard.

“I’ll blow you later, as a thank you.”

“Not with this dental arsenal, you won’t,” Armie tells him.

“Touch my ass again.”

“And what will happen?”

“Squeeze. Like a stress ball.”

I have no idea why there is overpopulation, Armie muses. Thousands of years of evolution, going to colonize Mars and we couldn’t invent anything more dignified, less preposterous.

But squeezing helps a bit.

“Better?”

“Still weird.”

“Weird bad?”

“No. Move.”

“How about a selfie? I can reach the phone,” Tim suggests.

Armie catches his hand in time. “I will strangle you.”

“Yes, it adds to the excitement,” Tim nods.

“Move!”

“You feel wonderful.”

“When you finish, don’t come on the comforter,” Armie grumbles. “We forgot to unmake the bed.”

“I love you, you know?” Tim smiles.

“Yeah, I have my moments.”

Tim leans closer, “I love you. I will never love anyone the way I love you.”

How ridiculous…

“Come here,” Armie draws him down and buries his nose in Tim’s neck. His joints protest, but the overall sensation is worth it.

He doesn’t know exactly when Tim hits something, but at some point he does – blind luck or… no, just blind luck, he concludes. Anyway, once he does, it starts feeling better, not great, mind you, but better.

Then Tim strokes him from root to tip, and it gets to pleasant.

Then Tim finds this peculiar place on his belly and presses it rhythmically, and it is suddenly not bad at all, almost worth all the fuss and embarrassment.

Then Tim kisses him, his tongue working in sync with his thrusts, and Armie doesn’t want it all to end.

Then Tim starts moving a bit faster, then Tim pulls his hair, then Tim growls in his open mouth, suddenly, and Armie feels this growl passing through his whole body and returning into his alpha’s, like electric current in a closed circuit.

Infinity made flesh.

He feels the sun on their skin, this gentle dying light filling the room and covering them both, fixing them in time and place like amber, for all eternity. Through his palms he feels the muscles in Tim’s rocking back, feels his breathing, his heartbeat; sees the vein in his neck throbbing steadily like a metronome – minutes, seconds, moments floating away and transforming into memory, radiant and quiet.

Vulnerability, he thinks. Most of all it feels like vulnerability, this complete openness to someone else’s body and being.

How frightening it is, how much courage it demands to look into your eyes and see the knowledge there, the knowledge of what is happening to us.

Only now, exploring your body, going from shoulder to the chest, to the belly, to the thighs, my fingertips reading it like lines in Braille, drinking the energy of this sunshiny alabaster, only now I start to understand so many things that were lost to ignorance and disdain.

I never had this, he admits and burrows his nose in Tim’s neck again, chasing the scent and the overwhelming engulfing joy that it brings.

My alpha.

I’m learning a new alphabet, where you’re the beginning and I am the end, where after every end comes a new beginning. And I want us to create new words from it, new worlds, new civilizations. All of them impossible before you, without you.

I had no idea…

Being a couple…

I had no idea what it means, and now I probably do. I understand it and in the same second I realize that there was nothing to understand – you can only feel it, you can only live it.

I am opening my body and my soul to you and know suddenly that they can’t be separate. That using them separately is, maybe, wasting them both.

Even if tomorrow the sun dies, explodes, collapses on itself, still somewhere, on another planet, its light will be visible for hundreds and hundreds of years according to the laws of cosmic memory; and in the same way this shiny little moment will live inside me for the rest of time – your labored breath, your hungry lips, your movements now faster and more forceful.

Your reflection in me.

My ownership of you.

Our amber memory.

Indelible.

 

<> 

After his heartbeat gets back to normal, after the distant sounds from the street start coming back, after Tim goes to the bathroom and comes back with a towel to clean them up, after he has to conquer another rush of embarrassment and let him, after the sundust settles, when the walls return gradually to their twilight gray and Armie clings to his lover’s body for the warmth, but maybe for something else too, he finds again this place on Tim’s neck, there, under the left ear, where no one but him is allowed to touch, that no one but him is allowed to know, and breathes in.  

He tries to understand the sensation – it’s like a wound that was hurting for a long time and now stopped, like being able to walk again after your feet were sliced open.

Relief.

Contentment.   

Pleasant slow exhaustion.

“Your comforter is safe,” Tim says, staring at the ceiling.

“Thanks,” Armie smiles.

He listens Tim’s body and detects some tension deep inside. He thinks he knows where it’s coming from and Tim’s next question confirms his suspicion.

“Did you like it?” Tim asks, eyes firmly on the ceiling.

“It was fine.”

He wouldn’t go any further, no need to inflate this ego – he has to live with this alpha later.

“We should have used the candles,” Tim sighs. “They are aromatic. Called ‘Italian Summer.’”

“What does Italian summer smell like?”

“Have no idea. Olives, probably. Tomatoes.”

“We’re fine without candles,” Armie assures him.

“We are?”

“We are.”

Armie makes a bet – two minutes until another try. He reaches second 82 and loses.

“I don’t like fine,” Tim frowns. “Did you see fireworks?”

“Where?”

“When you came.”

“No, didn’t see any fireworks.”

“You should have.”

“Did you?” Armie asks him.

“No.”

“I once fell from a tree,” he remembers, “there was a lot of fireworks then.”

“Are you… disappointed?” Tim asks the ceiling.

“No, it hurt like hell.”

“I don’t mean the tree, I mean…”

“No, I’m not disappointed,” he kisses Tim’s jaw.

“Hungry?” Tim glances at him.

“No.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry…”

“Thirty-five, office job,” Armie sighs, “my joints aren’t the same.”

“Oh…” Tim noticeably relaxes, “well, some yoga…”

“Yes…”

“You’re pretty flexible. With some practice you can get your legs on my shoulders.”

“Forget it,” Armie stops him.

“Why?”

“My grandfather was an esquire.”

“I don’t see the connection…” Tim frowns.

“You wouldn’t.”

This time it gets to three whole minutes, then:

“Was it just fine?”

“ _Very_ fine,” Armie nods for emphasis.

“Next time will be better.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hungry?”

“You’ve already asked.”

“Many people break up over bad sex,” Tim muses aloud.

“How many?” Armie smiles.

“It’s in double digits, I know statistics.” A pause. “In reality all of them.”

“Yes, makes sense…”

“Is that why you divorced?” Tim glances at him.

“Probably.”

Probably it is that simple – you can’t have romantic love without physical want, even if this want is unfulfilled. Without it, this love, however deep, can only be a form of friendship. And friendship, again however strong, is never enough.

Probably they were very lucky, he and Liz, that they could go on on this simple diet of bread and water for so many years and never resent each other for the lack.

She is my best friend, Armie thinks, she’s always been my best friend and could never become more.

He’s been putting off telling her about Tim, but he will call her next week, he decides. It’s time to turn over this page.

Clean break is rather late in coming, but in the end it seems painless - the tree died long before it will be cut down and uprooted.

It’s time.

“Is _fine_ closer to bad or good?” Tim interrupts his thoughts.

“Good, Tim, good,” Armie chuckles.

“Good is not great.”

“It’s not bad either.”

“I’m sure I’m better with candles,” Tim concludes.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“And music.”

“With music you must be spectacular,” Armie nods.

“Do you want a divorce?” Tim asks cautiously.

“Not today.”

This seems to mollify his spouse for some time. But, unfortunately, his spouse is an alpha, and these folks, who conquered the world and remade it in their image, just can get past good old dick-measuring phase.

Pride is at stake.

“But good…” Tim starts again. “There are degrees of good. Like, is it medium good or… There are degrees…”

“Tim,” Armie searches for inspiration, “you’re the best lover in this building.”

“It’s only seven stories,” Tim says sadly.

“Still an achievement.”

“Better than Mrs. Clarence then?”

“Incomparable, I’m sure.”

“She cracked the plate,” Tim informs him.

Armie completely forgot about it. “She returned it?”

“Yes, but she cracked it.”

“Did _you_ like it?”

“I know nothing about pottery,” Tim shrugs.

“No, not the plate, the… Us.”

“Yes, I liked us,” Tim smiles. “Best sex of my life.”

“Really?”

“I think so.”

“Why?”

“Because it was with you,” Tim says simply.

Alright, Armie decides, now you earned it.

“Tim,” he gets on his elbow and looks at him, “fine is closer to great.”

“How close?” Tim asks immediately.

“Almost indistinguishable.”

“We need great, Armie.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“Then we need to…”

“…practice,” Armie interrupts him with a kiss. “Let’s practice.”

“Now?” Tim blinks.

“There is nothing on TV anyway,” Armie smiles and kisses him again.

They practice.

Armie doesn’t know if it makes fine, or alright, or good, or perfect. He doesn’t know how it is supposed to be with other people, who have the right size and right age and right biography, but he thinks that what they have is maybe enough. He really starts to think that it might be enough for a lifetime.

Then they practice some more.

Tim bites his ass.

The sun sets.

Amber turns into blue, and blue becomes black.

He never sees any fireworks, only burning emeralds of Tim’s eyes, rising and falling in the darkness, but maybe, just maybe that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m tempted to say something here, and I know I shouldn’t. 
> 
> This chapter sucked a lot of blood out of me, unexpectedly, and if it’s an absolute trite, then my only excuse… Well, everyone has an excuse. Alas, they are useless.
> 
> Thank you is what I should say, because I probably don’t say it enough. Thank you for reading.


	11. Chapter 11

“Life is good,” Nick opines.

“Why?” Armie looks at him suspiciously.

“No, nothing,” his friend smirks and goes back to his lunch. “Nothing.”

Armie stares at him some more but then just rolls his eyes and dismisses it.

Life is good.

Yes, it is. So what?

Does it always have to be gloomy?

It’s actually fine at the moment. Very fine, thank you. No need for smirking.

Also, I love turtlenecks. Always meant to wear them regularly, just couldn’t get to it. Fashion changes, something old is new again.

Life is good!

Yeah… um, yes, it is.

Who said it was only downhill after the wedding? Nonsense!

Ten years after the wedding maybe, but after a month - it’s only up and up and up. Only uphill.

And no, Armie wouldn’t want to elaborate. Enough of…

Eat your tuna and stop bothering me.

He keeps glowering at Nick who hasn’t said a word for the last ten minutes and is more interested in his tuna.

Life is…

Well, if you really want to know, pal, then…

Again, why do you want to know, really? Didn’t ask much when I was single, but now… Oh, of course, _now_ it is suddenly fascinating what I do after hours.

The answer would be, not much. Don’t have time between dinners and… well, Tim. Got behind in my reading even, because, you see, newlywed alphas, they are… Oh, it’s a taxing job to be married to a tax collector. Think they are all bookish and stuff? Ha! Mine isn’t. Has books, but hasn’t read them lately, between dinners and… well, me.

Also, he is young, you know? Not, like, so young, that it’s a problem, but _young_. So, healthy appetite and all that. Growing still. Understandable.

He cooks, too. Like a lot. You wouldn’t notice because we burn it out. We exercise. We have to. Because he cooks.

What, more questions?

“Ok, so…” Nick finishes his plate.

“Fuck off!” Armie barks.

“What?” Nick looks at him surprised.

“Let’s go, we’re late.”

“It’s ten to two, we…” Nick tries, but gives up seeing Armie hastily getting up.

Nosy people are the worst, Armie thinks while counting the bills. Nosy people and old joints. The worst.

 

<> 

Still, life is… Oh, life is something else right now in the Chalamet-Hammer household. (Or Hammer-Chalamet, the point is still debated periodically.) Tim seemed to accept his defeat with grace, until one day Armie found a framed map of southern France in the living room, with a red flag proudly marking  “Chalamélas, founded circa 1230”. He thought about some clever response, but his hometown wasn’t a match, so now he ignores it, all those tons of history staring at him reproachfully from the wall.

Hammer he is, Hammer he’ll stay. Period.

If Crusades are the best Tim can do, more’s the pity.

Well, it grates a bit, but what can you do – give up your name and your principles? No, sir. Never.

And what next? His liver?

By the way, Tim can cook liver, too. [Sautéed](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/sauteed-liver-apple-salad-blackberry-dressing) liver with apple salad. Armie first scrunched his nose and turned away.

“Eat,” Tim said sternly. “Rich in nutrients, low in calories. Not recommended for pregnant people. Are you pregnant?”

“No.”

“Then eat,” his alpha shrugged.

It’s difficult to argue with Tim about such things, he usually knows what he is talking about.

“Sardines,” Tim points to him in the supermarket. “Underrated by stupid people. We’ll take three cans, you need some vitamin D after the winter,” and he loads them in the cart. “Garlic, too. You need garlic.”

“ _I_ need garlic,” Armie rolls his eyes.

“ _You_ need garlic, yes. You went through heat only a month ago. You need to restore your strength,” Tim nods. “Roman soldiers ate it regularly and built an empire. Helps with a hard-on, too,” he says nonchalantly and strolls away.

“What do you mean?” Armie splutters.

“Stimulates blood flow to the penis.”

“And I need it?”

“We both need it now, sugar,” Tim winks. “Take five bulbs. Big ones.”

Armie goes back and gets the garlic, stumbling into another guy who apparently heard and decided to follow the advice, too.

The guy takes six. Armie looks at him, like really, and pointedly takes two more.

“Spinach is also good,” Tim tells them from the end of aisle.

The guy scans the vegetable section and retreats. Armie returns with his seven bulbs.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns Tim.

“You are fine,” Tim smiles.

“I said don’t say anything!” Armie cuts him off and marches away.

Like, honestly, one problem he never had was this – worrying about his performance. Thirteen years of marriage – the question never came up, and now, suddenly – garlic, spinach, fucking vitamin D, chicken liver.

For thirteen years erection was more of a problem than its absence - and now he is thinking that they should have probably taken some spinach, too.

Just in case.

And carrots. Or is it a myth? Where did he hear about carrots? _What_ did he hear?

No, fuck carrots. He is fine. If his alpha says he is fine, then he is fine…

“Can you bake a carrot cake?” Armie asks Tim who comes up with a bag of flour and puts it in the cart.

“That’s for sperm motility,” Tim rolls his eyes. “And thermal processing reduces the effect. Better eat it raw.”

“If you can’t, just say so,” Armie raises his brow. “I love it. My mom used to make it all the time,” he continues, knowing full well that his mom probably wouldn’t distinguish flour from cocaine, if hard pressed.

“Oh, really? What kind?”

“Kind?” Armie looks at him, startled. “Just carrot and… Just carrot in a cake.”

“Carrot in a cake,” Tim nods. “Wholesale?”

“Well, chopped. I don’t know! You’re the cook!”

“But it’s your favorite, I take it.”

“Alright, let’s eat chicken liver all the time!” Armie throws up his hands. “Once I asked you for something! Once!”

“Chicken… What? Fine, great, I’ll make you a carrot cake. Frosting? No frosting? Almonds? Cheese? Coconuts? Pineapples? Walnuts? Or is it just baked carrots you crave suddenly?”

“Almonds,” Armie makes a wild guess.

“Almonds,” Tim nods. “Fine. Let’s go find some. She probably made it with almond flour, that’s why you remember.”

“Yes,” Armie agrees readily. “Almond flour. It all comes back now.”

“Never knew it was popular then,” Tim wonders. “You were ahead of your times.”

“We tried,” Armie replies modestly.

At home Tim raises another flour storm and later presents him with a small orangey cake. Much ado about nothing, in Armie’s humble opinion, but it tastes like home, it all comes back now.

“Anything else you desperately wanted but were too afraid to ask?” Tim inquires drily.

“I like fish,” Armie says.

“In a cake?”

“No, not necessarily. Just fish. In any form.”

“Well, for fish I’ll have to go to the port. Actually I was planning to - everything they bring to the local market is days old and thrice frozen,” Tim frowns. “It’s good that you like fish. I know how to make a good bouillabaisse, but it takes time. Better during the weekend.”  

“It’s a good cake,” Armie takes another bite. “Thank you.”

“Oh, it is very special,” Tim purrs. “Very special. Deserves a special thank you, you know?”

“How special?”

“Get naked and I’ll tell you,” Tim leans down and licks some crumbs from his lips. “Several thank yous it deserves. A gift basket.”

“Really?”

“Really,” his alpha smiles and tugs him by the hand. “Let’s go. We haven’t practiced since yesterday. Such a lack of discipline.”

“We practice a lot,” Armie protests, but gets up.

“Oh, not enough, not enough,” Tim starts climbing him like a tree. “You know that theory, um, how you can become an expert in anything? Ten thousand hours. Spend ten thousand hours doing it and you’ll be a pro. Works with everything,” he nods, “from rocket science to crocheting. Invest your time properly and you can become the best crochetee in five boroughs.”

“Crocheter,” Armie chuckles.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I think we should apply it to fucking. That way lies perfection.”

“You want perfect?” Armie grabs his ass.

“I want my ten thousand hours,” Tim smiles and bites his chin lightly. “Come on.”

“We’ll need a lot of garlic,” Armie mumbles passing the living room.

“Cheap,” Tim grinds against him. “We can afford it.”

“Isn’t it Wednesday?”

“You say it every day,” Tim bites him again. “Quit procrastinating.”

“Tim, I’ll croak after ten thousand hours.”

“You underestimate yourself. You were built to go the distance. I’ll ride you into the sunset,” Tim reassures him. “No, don’t fall on the bed. You squashed my lungs last time. Gently. Yeah, nice. Now, take off your pants. Take off mine too, while you’re at it.”

Ten thousand, Armie thinks while he is at it, ten thousand hours, it’s years probably. Even if they try, they won’t be able to cram ten thousand hours into what is left until next May. Though lately he’s found out that you can cram a lot of stuff into a lot of places, if you’re of a mind to: some know-how, some hearty swearing – and things just slide.

So, despite the fact that the number is scary, they decide to stick to it. For now.

Armie grumbles. But Armie always grumbles, as Tim tells him, so it’s not like it’s an insurmountable obstacle. Things are very mountable in this household, very mountable.

Speaking of… They had a quick discussion over positions. Results are mixed. Tim, who is a great fan of “bend you over” in theory, in practice is all “no, want to see your face.” And Armie - between “if my grandpa only saw me” and “let’s kill the lights” – after giving it some serious thought, arrives to a surprising conclusion that infamous “face down, ass up” is very efficient and ergonomic.

They figure the stuff out. A lot of it.

For example, the fact that they aren’t into foreplay much, unless you count Armie’s grumbling again.

And that the sofa in the living room is the midpoint between the entrance door and the bed.

And that not wearing shoes at home is very propitious for a quickie.

Also that, with Tim being a night owl and Armie an early riser, it can mean rock around the clock, if you are newlyweds and have such an ambitious bedroom goal.

“If I find a timer in the bedroom,” Armie warns one day, “your little project will be shut down faster than you can say ‘why.’”

“Don’t worry,” Tim smirks, “you won’t find it.”

You stealthy bureaucrat, Armie thinks, never a straight answer from you, ever.

And life goes on.

They figure out that candles don’t add much, apart from the smell; that Italian summer smells of strawberries and soap apparently, and that after one use you can’t get rid of it for days, which means you have to open the windows to air the room. Unfortunately, according to Tim, an open window can be interpreted as draft, and he hates drafts more than he hates tax attorneys. In short, candles are out.

They figure out that sex can be fun, and awkward, and clumsy, and too often is, but it’s also communication, communion and affection, and life would be so much duller without it.

After a lengthy argument with himself, Armie finally decides that he wants to know what it feels like – Tim’s face dragged across his chest. So – before he can talk himself out of it – he grabs said face and hauls it from his belly to his left shoulder.

Feels fantastic.

“What was _this_?” Tim looks at him, slightly stunned.

Armie can’t provide an intelligent answer.

“Like this?” Tim asks and leans to rub his cheek on Armie’s shoulder.

“Yeah… Yes, it’s nice,” Armie sighs.

“Hm, ok.”

…and next morning Tim wakes up with a rash that looks like he was wiping his face with sandpaper.

“I’m sorry, Tim, I didn’t think…” Armie starts when he sees it.

“Don’t worry, I have a lotion for it,” Tim shrugs.

“No, I shouldn’t…”

“I said don’t worry,” Tim interrupts. “It’s fine. Honestly.”

So it’s not all smooth all the time, there are hiccups, but they are inevitable if you’re on your way to become a pro, and as his alpha seems hell-bent on it, they cautiously continue.

Armie figures a lot of stuff on his own, too.

For example, while he doesn’t care much for foreplay, he can’t get enough of the aftermath – those two-three precious minutes when Tim collapses on his chest or clings to his back, worn out, sweaty, relaxed, his heart beating so loudly that the sound travels through Armie’s skin and to his very core; those minutes when all his instincts come alive and sing in unison _I made my alpha happy, I made my alpha happy, I gave pleasure to my alpha._ It brings him such a sense of fulfillment and pride, such feeling of wholesomeness and rightness that, stroking Tim’s head gently, he wants them never to end, those few wonderful minutes, he wants this deep calm and contentment to last and last and last.

This is in my blood, too, he thinks, getting most pleasure from giving it, receiving most joy from ability to create it.

And this makes him hesitate every time when he remembers about Tim’s suggestion that they could switch.

They haven’t discussed it since, but the conversation isn’t forgotten - Armie confirms it when one morning he finds lube in the bathroom.

The message is obvious – I’m ready when you are.

Armie doesn’t think he is ready, and he starts to suspect that he may never be. He can imagine it in theory, but even in theory he gets to a certain part – and all he sees is Tim wincing in pain.

The picture is nauseating.

He understands that they’ll prepare. He understands that thousands of men did it before them. He understands that if they are careful, he won’t really hurt Tim, that he can make it pleasant for him, and still…

He can’t even say that he enjoys having Tim under him in those moments when they turn over and he goes over his lover’s body exploring every inch, every curve, every place that only intimacy gives you access to. He likes it, but deep down he knows that he can’t relax, that he keeps thinking how fragile his alpha is, how easy he can bruise or crush him. And sometimes, no matter how hard he fights it, he sees Liz in those moments, and it is the last thing he wants to see or think about when in bed with his husband.

So he doesn’t know what to do about the lube.

If he puts it away, hides it in the medicine cabinet, that would be an answer in itself. But this answer will inevitably lead to a new question, and Armie isn’t quite sure about the reply right now.

Is it only fear that keeps him from trying it the other way? Fear of hurting Tim?

Or does he simply enjoy Tim as a top more?

But if so, is it right?

Is it… what a real man would want?

And what would a real man want? To dominate? Where? Only in the bedroom or in everyday life, too?

He is naturally bisexual, but does the fact that he wants Tim to be in charge, likes hearing all those things his alpha sometimes says about hunting and catching and dragging him back to his cave, does it make him… _effeminate?_

Besides, Liz loved to be in charge too - it didn’t make her any more _masculine_ in his eyes. And she loved a lot of so called girly stuff – cosmetics, high heels, sweet cocktails, mushy romcoms. And she was an alpha. Well, she is.

Also, the very fact that he is thinking about all this and in this light, is it really him or is it his long lost father, whose “man is an alpha if he is worth a damn, a beta if he isn’t” didn’t leave any place for an omega son in his life?

Plus, Tim doesn’t treat him like a chick, does he?

No, he doesn’t.

Tim can be rough, can be forceful, and Armie loves it. He loves it when Tim locks his arms above his head and holds him tightly, almost brutally, when Tim encourages him to fight it, when Tim is mad, if he is “faking” it.

“You’re an omega. Make me work for it. Come on!”

So Armie fights in earnest, sometimes shakes him off, sometimes throws him off the bed. Tim just gets up, slowly smiles:

“Now we’re talking, boy. Now we’re talking.”

And he climbs back and pins him down again and gets him to that stage where Armie is no longer willing to fight, no longer willing to resist, where giving up becomes pleasure, where it becomes freedom, where finally accepting his alpha into his body feels nothing like defeat, but only relief, only welcome.

Tim promised to bite him during heat, to hold him with his teeth the way it’s supposed to be, to mark him, and this is the only reason why Armie is actually waiting for that damn thing to come this time, because it will be a real bite, alpha’s bite, wild, primitive, old-fashioned and unique. The mark only your real mate is meant to give you.

Is it something wrong to be excited about?

Should he feel ridiculous, being his size, when he falls asleep on Tim’s chest?

Should he want to be the top?

He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know yet how to discuss it with Tim, so he stares at this red and blue bottle from time to time and keeps it where it is, not moving it to the medicine cabinet and not bringing it to the bedroom either.

If it is an RSVP, then the answer is still pending.

 

<> 

Fortunately, that’s not the only question they are up against. There are also blowjobs. And who knew that this uncomplicated procedure could produce such a storm of emotions?

Yet, it does.

Well, it does for Armie, Tim sees no problem at all.

“Someone has to suck dick in this house!” he exclaims, exasperated. “No blowjobs after the wedding? What is it? 19th century?”

Armie agrees, he agrees wholeheartedly, then he sees the fangs and… _nah, thanks, I’m good, man._

“Ok, I’ll do it,” Armie sits up.

“That’s physically impossible,” Tim shakes his head. “I tried.”

“I didn’t mean… I meant… Ah, lie down,” Armie waves him off.

“You don’t want to,” Tim protests.

“Why do you think so?”

“You do?”

“I do,” Armie shrugs.  

Tim frowns, but finally lies down. Armie glances at the matter presented and calculates that it can fit in his mouth. It feels bigger than it looks.

Some politicians ram sausages more intimidating down their throats trying to please the electorate on local fairs. And if it’s worth a White House, it can’t be so bad.

“Do I smell?” Tim asks anxiously.

“Yes.”

“Ok, I’ll go to… freshen up,” he moves to get off the bed.

“No,” Armie stops him, “I didn’t mean… You smell… You always smell. It’s fine.”

“I always smell?” Tim frowns.

“It’s your scent, I just recognize your scent now. Lie down.”

“You don’t have to,” Tim worries again.

“But you want me to,” Armie glances at him.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“Stop looking at it!” Tim sits up.

“I’ll miss otherwise,” Armie reasons.

“But you’re looking… like… like it’s some dead frog under a microscope… like…”

“You look at me all the time.”

“I don’t look _like that!”_

“You look at me like I am a piece of steak! All the time!”

“Yes!” Tim cries. “But not like you’re some curiosity or… or…”

“I _am_ curious,” Armie shrugs. “Why don’t you just lie down and look at the ceiling, or better close your eyes altogether?”

Tim subsides reluctantly.

Armie takes a deep breath…

Suddenly, “Can you drive transmission?”

“I can’t drive at all…” Sigh.

“You can’t drive?” Tim gets up on his elbows. “I’ll teach you!”

“Yes,” Armie groans from between his legs, “let’s discuss this, too. Now.”

“I can teach you. You’ll love it.”

“We don’t have a car, Tim.”

“We’ll have it one day.”

“And this has to do exactly what with our current situation?”

“Well, you see, about transmission… It… The principle is sort of close.”

“Changing gears?”

“Well, yeah… Wait, so you know about gears?”

“I understand internal combustion, too. I just can’t drive,” Armie looks at him. “And I don’t see how… Do you get off on talking, or what? You’re still hard. Miraculously.”

“And you’re not?”

“Down,” Armie says immediately, seeing Tim move again. “Eyes on the ceiling.”

“It’s an ugly ceiling,” Tim sighs.

“It’s stone wool. Eco friendly, no mold, soundproof, pollution resistant.”

“We can change it.”

“We won’t.”

“We can put a mirror up there,” Tim muses.

Armie glances at him again and decides, fuck it, I’m going in. At this rate I’ll die without knowing what the fuss is all about. And if I suck at it… well, it’s difficult to say, whether it’s good or bad, given the situation.

So he goes in.

Gingerly.

Expects a reaction.

Anxiously.

The only sign that Tim noticed anything is sudden silence.

Armie has no idea what to think or feel. Well, it feels… like a dick in your mouth, that’s how it feels. The fact that the appendage is attached to a person dear to you is the only mitigating circumstance at this stage, otherwise it’s just that – a dick in your mouth.

But Tim stopped talking.

Yes, he must have noticed.

Say something, Armie wishes suddenly. How about some encouragement? Some kind word? No?

A simple glance would do, you know? What the hell is so interesting about the ceiling?

He tries to recall what he likes himself and use it, but when he thinks about that, he starts thinking about Liz, and Liz is the last thing he needs right now.

There is something about breathing, he remembers out of nowhere. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Or is it in reverse?

He tries both ways, gags both times, but if he wanted a reaction, there is a reaction - Tim bucks his hips and Armie gets a dose of his spouse up to his tonsils.

“Fuck… sorry.”

“S’okay,” Armie blinks through suddenly watery eyes. “Get your legs on my shoulders.”

It goes smoother after that for some reason, somehow becomes more intimate. He strokes Tim’s thighs, his belly, tries to relax as much as possible, closes his eyes and thinks in terms of pleasure – giving pleasure, taking care, showing affection. He tries to forget how good or bad at it he is, how strange it feels. And he knows suddenly that he wouldn’t be able to do it with anyone else - but it’s Tim, and with Tim talking and joking and being a fool isn’t as scary as it would be with someone else.

He wants his alpha to like it, to enjoy it, wants him to feel cherished and tries to convey it with his tongue and his lips and his teeth. He can’t reach everything, but there his hand helps.

And Tim is responding - his hands are gripping the sheets, his breathing becomes noisier. When Armie glances up he sees the column of pale neck – head thrown back, mouth open, chest rising on a breath, as if wracked in spasm.

He senses that they found a rhythm somehow – Tim’s shallow careful thrusts don’t hit him out of nowhere now. He strokes his legs, finds his hole and Tim’s whole body convulses when he touches it.

Armie looks up again and finds Tim, cheeks blossomy-pink and eyes sparkly, staring back at him, biting his lips.

“Yes,” Tim whispers. “Yes…” and his hand dives into Armie’s hair and pushes down gently.

Armie gags again, but when Tim hastily removes his hand, he catches it and puts it back.

“Soon…” Tim breathes out. “I…”

Yes, Armie thinks, yes, give it to me. I know now why you are saying it all the time, I know what you mean.

Give it to me.

Let go.

Move faster.

Push harder.

It’s ok.

I can take it.

Give it to me.

I’m your omega, I can give it to you.

I never thought I’d enjoy it, but I am. I love everything about it – your warm thighs, velvety against my cheeks, your hand on my head, your contorting belly, the sounds you make, sharp and broken like sparks, desperate like tears.

“Please!” Tim whispers, urgently, uncharacteristically. “Please…”

And Armie understands, tries to take him deeper, tries to give it to him, once again opening his body and accepting his alpha.

Of course, someone else would’ve been able to do it better. Of course, gagging and nose full of pubic hairs aren’t what they promise you when they describe love in poetry. Of course, he sucks at it – he knew it – but, given the circumstances, it’s probably good, because Tim growls suddenly, his thighs smother Armie in merciless grip and slowly, slowly fall apart, slightly shaking; then Armie, mouth full of something viscous, at last sees what the fuss was all about.   

 

<> 

The lovely experience is replicated on the couch, in the hallway, in the sho… (no, shower is a different matter), in bed again.

Familiarity breeds mutual content. They become better at it: opening conversations are shorter, gagging is tolerable, Tim’s heels are soft, his thighs are softer.

Afterwards, his cheek on Tim’s belly, his alpha’s hand lazily stroking his hair, Armie closes his eyes and wishes he could purr, and regrets that he can’t. He finds the place on Tim’s body, right where the ribcage ends and where, if you press on it slightly, every breath will produce a quiet growl, sounding more like snoring. He loves it there.

He loves looking up and finding Tim’s drooping eyes that come alive when they focus on him.

“Come here,” Tim tugs him gently by the neck, and Armie slides along his body and arrives at his shoulder, where his alpha wraps him in his arms and whispers, “Give me a moment. That’s not the end of it.”

Armie spends the moment breathing in his scent, unerringly finding that spot under Tim’s ear where it’s so warm and velvety and peaceful.

Tim turns him on his back.

That’s not the end of it.

Ten thousand hours is a long, long time.

 

<> 

So, if you ask Armie, blowjobs are no longer a pressing issue, they figured it out.

If you ask Tim, the question still stands.

Tim simply can’t understand why all his advances to Armie’s nether regions are politely but consistently deterred.

And Armie himself starts to suspect that the situation is a bit silly – he can’t be the first guy in history facing a blowjob from an alpha. Someone surely must have tried it before. People are creative that way.

He decides to investigate.

Naturally, the best way to do it is to find some alone time at home and dive into the depths of the internet for some research. That would be logical and rational.

Unsurprisingly, Armie does the opposite.

Nick asks him to choose a new baseboard, because the client suddenly and inexplicably changed his mind about the wainscot they agreed upon previously and now wants it “like it was in my grandma’s house.” That’s very touching, Armie thinks, only as a result door and window trims will have to be changed too, and after you change window trims you have to change the cornices, and so on and so forth, until the whole design goes to hell.

Lovely prospect.

He sighs, looks at the baseboards catalog, looks at the door where a second ago Nick stood, glances at his computer screen, sighs again, scans the office just in case and, undaunted, enters the words “blowjob” and “alpha” in the search engine.

Because, of course, you haven’t really lived until your boss catches you in the middle of your sex research.

Of course.

But at least he was right, Armie realizes, when he sees about 120 million results as a response to his question. Someone indeed has tried this thing before, or people are just insanely curious in this country.

The first link, though, turns out a disappointment, because it sends him to a forum where some very mad guys are furiously arguing that alphas “don’t suck, period.” It’s unnatural and fangs are the proof. Only if you read further, you’ll find out that chicks “probably” can or “certainly” should, so it’s not so much about alphas as about guys.

Not helpful.

Armie opens another link. There he finds an article that firmly states that the experience “will change your life” and “open all your chakras.” Which is probably great, but he doesn’t know because he doesn’t finish it. He is more preoccupied that it will open his penile artery and speedily send him to heaven in a fountain of blood, to be honest.

Much good your chakras will do you six feet under.

So he tries another link and, sure thing, finds a bunch of horror stories straight from ER. Luckily no pictures are displayed, but the gore in descriptions proliferate. And this would’ve been the end of it and who knows which direction his subsequent sex life would’ve taken, but he glances again at the baseboards catalog and decides to try one more source, before giving up.

And that fourth link sends his unsuspecting ass straight to sex shop.

Well now, it’s not like he didn’t know that such places existed - he is thirtysomething after all, been around, saw some stuff – but he never actually visited. And now he is, in the middle of his working day.

His first dazed conclusion – if you want to know how different people really are, don’t go to the UN, pop into one of these stores. Here you’ll see how fucking versatile mankind is.

Amid innocuous nipple clamps and butt plugs, there are so many things which existence and purpose are frighteningly unexpected. Handcuffs, whips and dildos he can understand, but why the fuck is a flashlight here? What, for young pioneers in search of clitoris? Because it looks like a standard thing you’ll find in any Home Depot.

Curious, Armie clicks the description - and immediately wishes he didn’t. He starts thinking he is in way over his head here. He starts thinking he should have just believed Tim when he said that nothing horrible would happen to him. He starts thinking all this is a very bad idea, and idiotic to boot.

His suspicion only grows when he sees a strange contraption that promises to attach his ankles to his eyebrows, or inversely his heels to his shoulders, and provide “maximum naughty satisfaction.”

And then he sees something cute.

Harmless and cute.

At the bottom of the page there is a hedgehog, with small beady eyes and upturned sharp nose, its spines gently rounded so that it looks like a massage brush.

And it’s cheerfully green, lime green.

How did you get here, sweetie?

And why do you need batteries?

Well…

No, it’s not by mistake. The hedgehog firmly belongs here - its upturned nose is really a hook that will prevent it from crawling up your colon and into your gut; meanwhile it can curl up and unfurl in your butt providing another “naughty satisfaction.”

Fuck me, Armie thinks. I shouldn’t be here. This place isn’t for amateurs.

And thank fuck Gina uninstalled that traffic monitoring program she once acquired for the office.

Or she said she did.

Fuck.

Ok, too late. If you’re going through hell, keep going. Just move faster.

As soon as he decides on that he sees category “Oral” and immediately clicks. There he finally finds what he was looking for – a white plastic thing looking a bit like alpha dentures, only with fangs safely rounded. _Play It Safe_ the name suggests - Armie fully agrees and adds the device to the cart.

The shop apparently knows its clients very well and understands that no one wants to have a flogger delivered to the workplace, so they are ready to bring it to your home “from dusk till dawn.”

Great. Armie chooses 10 pm and is going to finish the purchase when something unexpected happens.

Hedgehogs go on sale.

-40%

Only today and only for three hours.

Don’t miss your chance!!!

Of all the…

“We don’t need it,” Armie firmly tells the screen. “Thank you.”

And doesn’t move.

Well, he scans the office again, then looks back at the flashing announcement.

There is something about free shit, no matter how useless, that completely short-circuits human brain. You can’t move. You know you should. You can’t.

-40%

-40% mean that you can be 40% smarter than all the suckers who’ll buy this thing three hours later for full price.

Everyone wants to feel smart, no one wants to be a sucker.

Liz worked in marketing, Armie knows a lot about marketing. He can’t move.  

He doesn’t need this thing. _They_ don’t need this thing. He knows it. And yet…

He calculates -40%

He thinks about Tim. What if Tim wants something like this?

Well, reason suggests, then ask him, he’ll tell you for sure, whether he wants it or not.

Tim has a conservative streak, though. He might be conservative in bed, too. Who knows?

Then again, what does “conservative in bed” even mean? Like in the old days? In the old days they were doing stuff you can’t think of without getting all giggly. So much for conservative.

By now Armie acknowledges that he has lost, as people who start negotiating with conscience usually end up doing. He’ll buy this thing. If he is brave enough, he’ll probably show it to Tim, too. Then he’ll know if Tim is interested or thinks that his omega is a freak. Of course, then, if Tim is interested, it will be time to ask, if Armie himself is interested or just a cheap fucker who buys stuff on sale.

So many things can be gleaned from this little thingy. Amazing.

Yes, he’ll buy it. Definitely. 

Who knows, maybe lime green is just the color for their bedroom palette?

Who knows, indeed?

  

<> 

In the evening Armie’s goodies arrive.

The guy who delivers it looks like he can’t be more bored, as if it were encyclopedias he was bringing to people’s houses. Armie admires his stoicism – he knows he wouldn’t be able to stand there and hand over butt plugs with a straight face; he would look all shifty, all guilty.

So he tips the man - real professionals have to be rewarded. So few of them left these days.

“Who was that?” Tim asks from the couch, when Armie returns to the living room.

Armie takes a deep breath and shows him the teeth thing.

“Oh,” Tim cocks his head. “Yes, I used it. It will look like I’m fulminating at the mouth, though.”

Armie totally ignores “fulminating” and zeroes in on “used” instead. Zeroes and bristles.

“Easy, easy,” Tim chuckles. “All yours now.”

Armie doesn’t feel “easy, easy” at all, more like “all ex-lovers should be deported to Antarctica and left there.” Ok, not Liz. Liz can stay where she is. Hell, Liz had the decency to emigrate at least, but Tim’s paramours are still around.

And that’s just the two he knows about. How many more are there? Maybe in the same borough? Maybe in the same zip code?

Casanova!

Philanderer!

Waste of hedgehogs, you!

“And that?” Tim nods towards the second box. 

“Nothing,” Armie looks at him scornfully. “Loofah.”

“Loofah?”

“Yes, loofah,” he repeats, irritated, and marches to the bedroom, where he hides the damn thing deep inside his bedside table.

 You want to use it? Go on wanting, playboy!

 

<> 

Right, the shower…

You see, Armie likes washing things. It’s not a problem. It really isn’t. Some people are into jumping from bridges on a rope, and no one calls them out. So Armie likes washing things. So what?

It’s not like he is obsessed with cleanliness. He might have become a little more zealous in his efforts after the divorce, but then he hadn’t been slovenly before, either. Plus, it’s very satisfying to take something dirty and make it clean. It’s soothing in a way.

And yes, he’d been dusting his bookshelves two or three times a week and vacuumed the rooms every other day, but look at the result – the result is order and shine. It’s a good result.

He likes washing dishes, too. Same logic. Admittedly, these days, when there is someone actually cooking in his kitchen, the amount of washing material increased, but it’s not a problem.

Loving to organize things and make them clean isn’t a problem at all.

It’s a very fortunate habit now that he has Tim, because Tim supplies chaos 24/7 and without coffee breaks – wholesale and retail, express delivery and free shipping. If it’s not Christmas lights in the living room, then it’s underwear on the fridge. His alpha operates in mysterious ways, especially when he returns home earlier than Armie, which is quite often.

But you can’t blame Tim, Armie decided after some inquiries. The fact that his husband had never been told that, if you put the thing back where you found it, you can easily find it again next time, is not his fault. And he hadn’t been told that, because in his parents’ house priorities were slightly different. Namely, when Tim was about six he started helping his father in the kitchen, at ten he was put in charge of family breakfast, at twelve he progressed to dinners. Meanwhile, good grades, cleaning up your room and general discipline were left out of the curriculum.

So Tim learned pretty early on that a D in Composition wouldn’t get him in trouble, overcooked pasta – would; and he’s been acting accordingly ever since.

But Armie likes washing and organizing, and when you find something you love, you can’t let some husband discourage you. Oh no, you can’t.

In truth, they rarely clash over it – Tim does his thing, Armie comes later and undoes it. You find your rhythm, you can live a hundred years like this without noticing.

If not for the shower.

The way Armie views the situation – Tim has only himself to blame here: did he say he wanted to take showers together? Yes, yes, he did.

So whose fault is it that, where Tim sees a sex opportunity, Armie unexpectedly and to his delight sees another thing to wash – his alpha?

He has artistic disposition, after all, and this disposition reminds him of Italian sculptor who once described his creative process as taking a block of marble and setting free the angel inside of it, getting a masterpiece in the end. Armie, consciously or not, tries to recreate the technic, soaping Tim up to the point of snowman and then carefully, painstakingly cleaning him up.

His angel doesn’t seem to appreciate the efforts, though. The more it happens, the less enthusiastic he is about collective ablutions.

“Did you know that raccoons sometimes wash their cubs to death?” he asks one time, while drowning in foam.

“No, I didn’t. Fascinating,” Armie replies, unflappable. “Now turn around.”

He doesn’t see the problem and doesn’t approve of the attitude. He likes washing dishes and he likes washing Tim. Both can be made squeaky clean if you apply yourself diligently.

It’s taking care. He takes care of his alpha. It’s in his genes as well. Sue him.

And fuck raccoons.

They eat garbage too - now we have to measure ourselves by _this_ standard?

Unfortunately, as days go on, it becomes more and more difficult to catch Tim unawares and drag him into the bathroom. Tim resists, unfortunately.

Armie resorts to bribery - first we wash, then we fuck. It works, for a time. Could be a successful scheme, if only after all this washing Tim wasn’t frankly desperate to get out and to hell with fucking. 

The breaking point, though, comes, when one day, absorbed in what he is doing, Armie completely loses track of the time and hot water runs out. Naturally, the second something cold starts pouring on Tim – and in great amounts - he leaps out of that shower like that proverbial bat out of hell, and no less pissed off. 

“You,” he cries and points at Armie, “have a problem!” and his soapy ass swiftly leaves the premises.

“Wuss,” Armie rolls his eyes.

Anyway, they don’t take showers together after that.

 

<> 

Procrastination is a drug.

_Later_ , once said, turns inevitably into _tomorrow_ , then into _next week_ , then into _next month…_ then into _too late._

Just say _now!_

And do it.

Armie didn’t.

Armie put away calling Liz and telling her about the changes in his life to the point where he stares at his phone and prays for some calamity to happen, if only it can spare him dialing the number and talking to his best friend, and accidentally ex-wife.

But the die was cast earlier today, when he made himself send a text to Liz saying that he wanted to talk and asking if it would be possible to call in the evening, which will be night in London.

Liz said yes. Definitely.

Liz, a night owl to the core, went and married her mate, another night owl. Armie, an early bird, went and married Tim, another night owl.

Just shows you. Chicks are smarter. Time to admit it.

But anyway, Liz texted that yes, call me, let’s talk, so now Armie sits in his study staring at the phone and prays for a calamity.

Tim is in the kitchen, Liz is in London, Armie is in panic.

Nothing happens for a long time.

Then he remembers that he is a grown-up and finally calls.

“Oh, hey,” Liz replies immediately and starts rustling something in the background. “Wait a minute.”

Rustling, rustling, rustling.

Please hang up, please hang up, please hang up.

“Let’s do video.”

Fuck.

“Of course,” Armie replies.

“Wait again,” she says and Armie sees her chin, then the blue carpet, then somet urn flies by. ”Ok, here. Hi,” Liz props the phone against something and Armie comes face to face, so to speak, with his ex-wife’s boobs, covered with white cashmere sweater, but still…

“Hi,” he sighs. “Higher.”

“Oh, right,” Liz’s face appear. Past midnight in her part of the globe and make-up is flawless. Just shows you…

“Something’s wrong?” she asks immediately.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Armie smiles, “just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, ok,” Liz nods. “Great, actually, because I have news.”

“You do?”

“I do,” she frowns. “Big news. Important.”

“Should I guess?” Armie asks, suspecting where it’s going.

“No, you’ll guess something dreadful, I know you,” Liz shakes her head, then looks at him. “We’re pregnant,” she pauses. “Matt says hi.”

“Through the baby?” Armie chuckles. “Message received.”

“You don’t look surprised,” she sounds disappointed.

“I don’t look shocked, you mean. Why should I?”

“Well…” she looks at him thoughtfully, then nods to herself, “Ok, you’re right. So, it’s a boy. Six months. The Honourable Matthew William Rutherford IV, 6th Viscount Allendale.”

“Wow…”

“Yes,” Liz nods. “And he’ll be a barrister. Matt just registered him at Eton.”

“British do that?”

“Those who can. _We_ can,” Liz replies significantly. “Ok, officially we can’t, but you know what I mean – we _can_.”

“So you’re pregnant with a lawyer?” Armie smiles.

“Barrister,” Liz corrects. “Yes, and I can’t ride because of him. I am horseless, and I feel horseless.”

“Poor dear…”

“Yes, but look,” and she grabs her boobs and squeezes. “Quite a handful!”

“Two handfuls,” Armie nods.

“You perv!”

“Matthew in Parliament already?”

“Almost,” she sighs. “The Queen wrote to him – he’ll assume his seat in autumn.”

“How is she?”

“The Queen? Oh, the old girl is splendid. We’ve just been discussing her funeral again.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened, part of protocol,” Liz shrugs. “But she is picky, I have to tell you – no tombstone is quite right.”

“I understand her predicament,” Armie chuckles.

“Bollocks!” Liz waves him off. “Doesn’t want it to be written there that she is a beta. They didn’t write it before, you know? Nobody even mentioned this only 30 years ago. But, come on, internet age – everyone knows,” she rolls her eyes. “Still, we had a debate. No one liked the results, so now we are having a debate over whether we should have had that first debate. Country is in turmoil.”

“And meanwhile you’re pregnant with a barrister,” Armie smiles.

“Oh, I am, I am,” Liz sighs tragically. “And that’s not all…”

“You’re fighting with the French again?”

“No,” she winces. “I get sick from Marmite. Violently sick. Can’t stand the sight of it!”

“Well, avoid it then,” he shrugs.

“Hello!” Liz waves. “I live in England, Armie - you can’t avoid it: some people spread it on ice-cream here. Matt worries – if it leaks, there’ll be a scandal.”

“Because of some jelly?” Armie is surprised.

“It’s not some jelly,” Liz exclaims, “it’s a symbol! You can’t throw up on national symbols, not if your husband is a peer.” She pauses, “It’s like your First Lady using Stars and Stripes as a towel.”

It takes him a second to understand the sudden sadness these words bring – _my_ First Lady, _your_ Queen.

Who could have thought that it would end up this way?

Not me. I thought everything would be _ours._ I thought _we_ would always mean you and me, but look at us now…

“Poor Matt…” Armie mumbles, just to say something.

“Yes, poor Matt,” Liz nods. “Ok, why did you call?”

At that Armie wakes up.

“I… well…” he tries and stumbles. “I have news, too.”

“Should I guess?” Liz smiles.

“No,” he replies, but then reconsiders. “Ok, yes. Try.”

“You’re remodeling the Oval Office,” Liz says confidently.

“No,” he smiles.

“Mmmm… Chrysler?”

“No.”

“Empire State?”

“No.”

“Something residential?” Liz frowns. “Some celebrity’s love nest?”

“It’s not about work, Liz,” he sighs.

“Your brother?” she groans. “What, they produced another Hammer down there? Industrious peop…”

“I met someone,” Armie tells her.

“Like some superstar?”

“Liz…” he stares at her.

And finally she gets it. “Oh… Oh! You?..”

“Yes,” he nods.

“Wow… I… Blast it, who is she?”

“It’s not a woman.”

“But she is legal, I hope?” Liz frowns.

“I married a guy,” Armie shakes his head.

“Oh, a guy…” she relaxes, then, “Wait, wait, wait – what do you mean married? When? Who? How? No, just… A second, please… I am… Ok, I’m listening. No! What do you mean you _married_ a guy? _What_ guy? Do you even know who he is?” she demands.

“Yes,” Armie chuckles, “we talked a couple of times before the ceremony.”

“You don’t joke about these things, Hammer!”

“I’m not joking.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“You didn’t tell me about your pregnancy,” he reasons.

“Yes, but that’s… It’s completely different. Completely! You _met_ someone! You _married_ someone!”

“Yes,” Armie agrees.

“I’ll be damned! Who is he?”

“Well,” Armie smiles, “his name is Timothée.”

“What?” Liz looks at him incredulously.

“Timothée.”

“Is he… _French?”_

“He might be.”

“You don’t _know?”_

“I don’t care.”

“Armie, you married a frog!”

“Liz!”

“What? They call us worse!”

“Elizabeth, you’re better than this.”

“No, I’m not!”

“He is from Brooklyn, sleep easy.”

“But this is unbelievable!” she stares at him.

“Is it?”

“How did you find a Frenchman in Brooklyn?”

“Gentrification,” Armie says drily. “And you found a duke on a plane.”

“Viscount.”

“Who flies coach.”

“We’re democratic.”

Armie stares at her.

“Well, sometimes,” Liz concedes.

“He is my alpha, Liz,” he says quietly.

“Your real alpha?”

“Yes.”

“Wow…”

“Yes.”

“Your real alpha…”

“Yes,” he smiles.

“And he is within reach, right?” she asks

“In the kitchen,” Armie nods.

“What’s he doing there?”

“Cooking, I think.”

“Unbelievable!” Liz shakes her head. “Alright, take me to him.”

“You want to meet him?” Armie somehow didn’t expect this.

“Of course, I want to meet him! If I have a French relative, I want to see it with my own eyes!”

“Liz,” he sighs, “he is as American as you are. And you are, my lady, under all that Marmite.”

“Ew!” she winces. “Ok, enough, bring me to him. Careful, don’t shake – I’m delicate these days.”

“Right,” Armie replies and doesn’t move.

“Let’s go. Up! Up! Up!”

Armie goes. Tries not to shake her, too.

“Tim,” he calls, entering the kitchen.

“Shhh,” Tim doesn’t take his eyes from the TV, “it’s important – they fired the Treasury guy, something is wron…”

“Tim,” Armie interrupts, “I want you to meet someone.”

“Next week, Tuesday, after 6.”

“I want you to meet my wife,” he sighs.

“I’m not your _wife!”_ comes loudly from the phone at the same time that Tim swiftly turns and says, “ _What_ wife?!”

“Just habit, sorry,” Armie turns the screen to him.

Virtual Mexican stand-off with no Mexicans in sight follows.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Liz raises another.

“So you are?..” she sounds unsure.

“Husband,” Tim replies darkly.

“Ok, guys, let’s be civil here,” Armie tries.

Receives two stares – one from two steps away, one from across the Atlantic.

Tim takes the phone from him.

“Don’t shake her,” Armie warns.

Liz keeps looking at Tim.

“What’s this?” she points suddenly.

Tim looks behind him. “That? Spaghetti slicer,” he shrugs.

“You changed my kitchen!”

“Yes,” he smirks, “I threw away your bed, too.”

“Really?” Armie looks at them both in turn.

Everyone ignores him.

“Are you French?” Liz demands.

“Very,” Tim nods. “When I have to.”

“You’re from Brooklyn!” she says accusingly.

“Don’t let it fool you, Madame.”

“And you make spaghetti?”

“I make everything,” Tim assures her.

“How about _nice to meet you_ , _likewise_ , _what a pleasure?”_ Armie muses aloud.

“Where did he find you?” Liz asks Tim.

“He didn’t find me,” Tim scoffs. “He blundered into my territory – I caught him in my mother’s living room.”

“Look,” Liz sounds serious, “I’ll say one thing – if I hear any complaint about you, I’ll…”

“If he has a problem _with me_ ,” Tim interrupts, matching her tone, “he’ll resolve it _with me_. He is not a toddler.” He looks at her thoughtfully, “If you feel so guilty, you shouldn’t have left him.”

“Tim, enough!” Armie tries to take the phone from him.

“No, Armie, stop,” he hears. “Stop! I started it. He is right.”

“Tim, she is pregnant,” Armie says reproachfully.

“Look, Elizabeth,” Tim sighs and his voice softens, “I understand your preoccupation, but you’re there and I am here. You left. You have your own family now, concern yourself with them. Because when I say French, I mean culinary traditions and Gallic pride, not ménage à trois.” 

“Gallic pride,” Armie rolls his eyes. “You’re from Brooklyn.”

“Remember Chalamélas,” Tim replies with aplomb.

“I don’t know you, Timothée,” Liz says, sounding more explanatory than apologetic.

“I’m his alpha.”

“Armie is a very special person for me. He is my best friend. He needs…”

“He’ll tell me what he needs, Elizabeth,” Tim tells her again. “I repeat, he is not a child.”

“I’m not a baton either!” Armie inserts, irritated. “Can you two stop talking like I’m some?.. Don’t you realize what it sounds like?”

“Ok, I’m sorry,” Liz nods. “I am,” she repeats. “It’s just all so unexpected…”

“Tim?” Armie looks at him.

“Alright, I’m sorry too,” Tim glances at him, then looks at Liz again. “Not for what I said. But I’m sorry I called you. It wasn’t right.”

“You mean _me?_ ” Liz looks at him surprised. “I never talked to you before.”

“You did,” Tim nods. “Remember the guy from the IRS? It was me. I apologize.”

“You?” Liz starts to smile, but then changes her mind. “You impersonated IRS? It’s a crime!”

“I didn’t impersonate anyone, I actually work there,” Tim tells her.

“In the IRS?”

“Yes.”

“No, that’s too much,” she shakes her head. “French I can understand, but IRS? Are you out of your mind?” she looks at Armie, then back at Tim again, “And you, I can report you, you know? That’s abuse of power.”

“Yes. You’re within your rights.”

“You’ll be fired?” she smirks.

“Yes, immediately.”

“Look, Liz,” Armie intervenes again, “it was a misunderstanding. it’s a long story. It won’t…”

“Why did you do it?” Liz ignores him and continues looking at Tim.

“I thought…” Tim starts, but then glances at Armie, who feels very uncomfortable with where the conversation is going. “It’s not important now,” he says finally. “But you’re right, if you want me fired, you can do it.”

“Well, if I worked there, I’d want to be fired too.”

“I don’t want to be fired, I love my job.”

“You’re barking mad,” Liz smiles and then laughs suddenly, looking at Armie, “Oh, your brother must have shit a brick when he found out!”

“What is she talking about?” Tim turns to him too.

“No idea,” Armie looks at Liz sternly. “My brother is completely legit.”

“Legit?” she splutters. “He works in healthcare management, as he calls it,” she tells Tim. “But he usually omits that he lives in Miami. Love, I’m telling you, dear Gordon would prefer clap to an IRS relative.”

“Liz, you’re exaggerating,” Armie sighs.

“Come on! Don’t you remember that…”

“Stop!” Tim interrupts them both suddenly. “Stop! Don’t say anything else. Are you both nuts?” he looks from Armie to the phone. “If I come across any information pertaining to illegal activity, I’m obligated to report it. Otherwise it’s concealment or, worse, accessory. I’m a government employee, you loons.” He turns to Armie, “You’re estranged?”

“I… well, you can say so…” Armie replies lamely.

“Great,” Tim nods, “call and tell him to stay estranged, for his own good.”

“He’ll be delighted,” Liz chuckles.

“And you,” Tim looks at her, “do you still have a problem with me calling you?”

“I just don’t get it – why would you tell me about it at all?” she asks instead. “I’d have never remembered it.”

“It’s a right thing to do,” Tim shrugs. “You apologized, so I had to apologize too.”

“Gallic pride?” she smirks.

“Common courtesy.”

They stare at each other for some time again.

“Ok, I won’t report you,” Liz says finally.

“Great! I won’t report anyone either,” Tim says cheerfully “Now, who is paying for this call?” he looks at Armie.

Liz smiles broadly.

“I thought so,” Tim mutters. “Ok, nice to meet you, Elizabeth. We won’t delay you any longer.”

“Oh, you’re not delaying me at all,” she replies sweetly.

“I’m sure we are,” Tim smiles, equally saccharine. “Next time you want something, just call. Your new family can afford it, I’m certain.” He looks at Armie, “Say goodbye.”

“Well, yes, Liz, it’s late on your side…” Armie shrugs.

“Yes,” Tim agrees, “goodbye.”

“I’m watching you,” Liz tells him.

“Ditto,” he nods and terminates the call without further ceremony.

“That was rude,” Armie takes the phone from him.

“No, _that_ was expensive.”

“Look,” Armie starts, “about my brother. She was only…”

“No, don’t,” Tim stops him. “One relative at a time.”

“You consider Liz a relative?”

“Do you?”

“She is my… she was my wife. She is my friend, Tim.” He takes a second, then asks quietly, “Do you like her?”

“Do you want me to like her?”

“Can you just answer the question?”

“I don’t know about liking,” Tim frowns. “I’m ok with her, she is fine. But I meant what I said, Armie - if she wants to pop up here to give unsolicited advice, I won’t allow it. No two alphas in this kitchen. When you leave, you leave.”

“No, no, she won’t do it,” Armie assures him.

“But you don’t need to hide her pictures either, you know?” Tim looks past him.

“It was just one photo.”

“You can put it back,” Tim looks at the table in the living room, where the picture used to be.

Armie looks too.

“No, I don’t want to put it back,” he says quietly.

“Then I think I like her after all,” Tim winks.

 

<> 

Something has to be done about this, Armie thinks again, opening the closet. Something, but what?

The rabbit came home to rest.

Armie finally took the hat that Tim gave him as part of “courting”, as he himself generously calls it, and brought it home – it gathered enough dust in the office, it was time to send it to a better place. He is not sure he’ll ever wear it, but leaving it there seems silly now. In whatever capacity, but the hat will stay.

And so, hat in hand, he stands in front of their closet and once again witnesses things he can’t quite reconcile himself with. Starting with a stack of Tim’s sweaters.

Well, the sweaters themselves are a minor problem, to be honest. It’s obvious what should be done about _them_ – some mothballs have to be bought to save and preserve them.

In his more charitable moments Armie contemplates the idea and then, for this or that reason, doesn’t act on it. Well, he knows why he doesn’t – his secret hope that something will eat them one day. And if the moths don’t, he’ll probably do it himself eventually.

Someone ought to. They are atrocious.

They are love, yes, but there is a reason why some loves are forbidden, and this is the case in point.

Why dear granny couldn’t buy him a suit, for example?

Why saddle your grandson with such a burden?

Incomprehensible.

Though, again, sweaters are only the tip of the iceberg. The problem goes deep. Exactly how deep Armie didn’t understand until they began living together and he had a chance to see Tim in all his sartorial glory every goddamn day.

And oh…

Just oh…

It inspires a question and the question, unfortunately, is – _what happened to you, dear? Who was it that mistreated you in such a way?_

Tim doesn’t help either – Tim loves color, has no idea about composition and chooses to express his affection through socks, shirts, bowties, and, of course, sweaters.

The very fact that he has more bowties than actual ties was the thing that worried Armie early on, but he manfully dismissed it, in hopes that it will get better. 

Maybe it will – time cures everything, they say. Only how much time? Decades?

No, something should be done about this.

Again, what?

Tim doesn’t look clownish per se, he looks neglected. Like a guy - for the first time on his own, after twenty years of marriage - who is sorely unqualified to dress himself, because he’d missed the memo that shirt, tie and socks aren’t exactly independent from each other. Add to that a bizarre fact that majority of his clothes are dirt cheap, and the gloomy picture becomes gloomier.

This last one puzzled Armie for some time. He knows Nicole and, as far as he can tell, they aren’t poor - not filthy rich, but certainly comfortable - and her son wears blazers from some place akin to Dollar Tree.

How?

Well, now, when he knows Tim better, he believes that it has nothing to do with Nicole. His alpha is fiercely independent – when he says that he’s been living on his own since the day he turned 20, he means it literally. On his own. No financial support - I’ll earn my own bread and butter.

Only a junior government employee’s salary doesn’t allow for much butter – hence, dollar stores and shiny elbows on the jackets.      

Take this all together, and Armie doesn’t know where to start…

Yes, he could try to give advice, could mention, for example, that suit pants demand the rest of the suit to be present, and not sneakers; that red bowtie and blue socks are a _hell no_ anywhere outside middle school; that brown belt and black shoes are a statement, but not about fashion; that quirky homemade sweaters are adorable as family photos and mementoes, but have nothing to do with business, even casual.

Yes, he could do all that and it could backfire spectacularly. Instead of propelling him in right direction, such comments might only wound Tim. As a result he’ll begin cherish his mistakes even more zealously, turning them into a stance, a hill to die on.

Besides, it’s not like Armie is an expert here. He knows a thing or two, but no one would accuse him of being a fashionista. His own rise from hoodies and jeans to suits and ties wasn’t smooth either.

When Gina hired him, first thing that she did was to give him an advance.

“This is not for bread and milk,” she said seriously. “You want to be a designer, start with yourself. Go and buy yourself something presentable. If I wanted a deliveryman, I’d hire a deliveryman.”

Armie looked around the office and saw a motley crew of cuffed chinos, loafers, boutonnieres, scarves, leather bags, pocket squares and suede vests. Then he glanced at his own frayed jeans and turpentine stained sneakers.

No, what was permitted to a carpenter from Queens, wasn’t permitted here, it was obvious.

“Welcome to Manhattan,” Gina smiled and slid the check to him across the table.

Armie hesitated. Clothes shopping had always been the bane of his existence.

_Oh, we don’t have it in this size…_

_Please, try the alpha department…_

_Oh, you’re an omega… Wow!_

_Sweetie, omegas are so good in white. Why black?_

They wanted to help, he knew, but they always managed to make it worse, asking questions, sympathizing, talking about their nephews, uncles, friends who “have difficulties, too.”

With time he learned to evade sales assistants better than some people evade alimony payments.

And now he had to go back and ask for their help, because he himself had only a very vague idea of what Gina wanted in return for this check. But he had to get this job, he needed it. Liz had left her feminist publication a year before and was now working for a large marketing firm; they planned to move to a better apartment, they were talking about a foreign trip…

Gina’s offer was a miracle – and miracles, he knew, were in short supply.

He needed this job.

So he pocketed the check and spent that day going from store to store, sometimes asking, sometimes just wandering around, never trying anything on.

He thought he had it bad in thrift stores, but here… Here his size and height and strangeness weren’t the problem, the problem was that it took a sales girl three seconds to determine that he was a poor shmuck who doesn’t know the difference between Kashmir and cashmere.

Yeah, they had his number alright.

Hoping to get some advice, he bought a men’s fashion magazine, but soon realized that one edition wouldn’t help him much.

What could he do with the suggestion that eldredge knot was “it” this fall, but half-windsor was “fail”?

He had no idea if he needed a tie at all. He saw only one in the studio.

And should it be khakis or jeans?

Should he buy a scarf?

Socks, were they still “it”, or men no longer wore them?

He liked socks. Was it a faux pas these days?

He wanted to call Liz and ask her, but then decided that 26 was too old to run crying to your wife. It was a simple task that he was given, he should be able to do it himself.

It was already evening when, on his way home and ready to admit defeat, he passed by a window with cardboard sign “Sammy’s Atelier” and a mannequin head glued underneath it. By now he had nothing to lose, so he came in.

A short rotund guy with walrus moustache and bright red suspenders was sitting at a small table and darning something under a gooseneck lamp.

“What you want?” he asked with a funny accent.

“I don’t know,” Armie shrugged, looking at the rolls of cloth scattered everywhere and piles of sewing patterns. “Clothes…”

“Clofes? What clofes?”

“I don’t know…”

The guy scratched his moustache and frowned, his eyes scanning Armie from head to toe. “Soot you nid. Goot soot. Yes?”

“Suit?” Armie smiled. “Yes, maybe.”

“Yes,” the man nodded. “Soot. Goot soot for a goot man. Eh?” He stood up from his table and approached Armie, looking at him thoughtfully. “You hav moni?”

“Yes,” Armie chuckled.

“Goot. Then go,” the guy decided, briskly turned and started walking away. “What?” he looked back at Armie, still standing there. “Go, go.”

_Come, come._

Armie went.

They passed through a small door, adorned with bamboo beaded curtain, and ended up in another room with a large mirror and some ancient sewing machine.

“What soot you want?”

“I don’t know…”

“Goot,” the man nodded, slid a measuring tape from his neck and motioned to Armie’s hoodie, “Away.”

Armie bulked at that. There was something incredibly intimate about letting this guy measure his body, revealing to him all the secrets that clothes managed to hide.

“Ah,” the man smiled kindly, seeing his hesitation. “Yes. Wait,” and he disappeared into another room.

A second later he returned with two small glasses, no bigger than a thimble and full of some transparent liquid. The whiff was enough for Armie to understand what was in store.

“Oh, no, no. Thank you,” he shook his head. “Thank you.”

“For a goot soot,” the guy handed him the glass ignoring his protests. “Eh?”

“Ok,” Armie sniffed the glass discreetly. “To a good suit.”

He drank.

Then started blinking.

Then tried to breathe again.

“What… is… it?” he croaked.

“Vodka,” the man smiled. “Russki. When you make in home.”

“Moonshine…”

“Yes. Russki moonshine. Goot, eh?”

“Strong,” Armie brushed away the tears.

“Ah,” the guy nodded. “Yes. Wait.” He took the glass from him and went back to the room from which the vodka appeared, this time returning with a piece of white puffy bread. He handed it to Armie.

“Russian?” Armie sighed.

“No,” the man shook his head. “Hay.”

Armie looked at him uncomprehendingly.

The guy thought for a second. “Armenian. When you make in home.” He smiled, “Matnakash. Eat.”

Armie accepted.

The bread helped with vodka, and vodka helped with measurements. And three days later Sammy, aka Samvel Grigoryan, presented to Armie his first tailor-made suit.

“Gray,” Sammy led him to the mirror. “Can’t be rong wis gray. All goot. Blu, ret, black, green, wite – all goot wis gray.”

It was then, in that small cluttered room, in that old scratched mirror, that Armie saw for the first time what well-fitting clothes can do to a human being. 

“Yes,” Sammy nodded happily. “Gray soot. Can’t be rong. Eh?”

“No,” Armie smiled. “Can’t be.”

One lesson was enough. He ordered two more suits and later, when Sammy moved to South Carolina, found another tailor - more expensive but equally talented - and kept adding to his collection.

Gray fitted him perfectly. To a guy whose survival strategy was not to stand out at any cost, it was the ultimate protective coloring – discreet, serious, polite and low-key.

He became the only man in the studio who consistently wore suits, but Gina had no excuse to complain – he did what she asked and no longer looked like a delivery guy. It took several editions of fashion magazines to learn how to choose ties, belts and shoes, but in the end he managed that, too.

All in all, Sammy was right – you can’t go wrong with gray.

Ret, black, wite – all goot.

Yeah, man, thank you, wherever you are. My only regret is that I don’t have you now, when I need you again, because I have another client for you and some Russki moonshine could help in convincing him.

But, nothing to be done here, this battle is his and his alone. He has to find some opportune moment and at least introduce the topic to Tim.

Only how?

His alpha is usually amenable after food and after sex, when he palpably softens, no pun intended. Also, he loves compliments – all stoic all the time, but, given the right temperature, can be melted. So that is probably how it should be done – after dinner and through praise.

Yes.

“That was to die for, Tim,” Armie tells him this very night. “What is it?”

“Oh, you noticed?” Tim beams. “It’s tarragon cream sauce.” He takes a little jar from the cupboard and brings it to Armie. “Smell. Tarragon leaf.”

Armie dutifully smells. It reminds him of the chicken he’s just consumed and that was, indeed, very good.

“Yes, I see,” he replies and turns to the sink to start with the dishes. “It’s a pity you won’t have time to cook, when you get promoted,” he says casually and waits.

“Promoted?”

“Well, one day they will promote you, I guess.”

“Oh, that won’t be any time soon,” Tim replies completely oblivious to the scheming. “And even when it happens – I know dozens of 20-minute recipes. Don’t worry.”

“They don’t want to promote you?” Armie asks, all compassion.

“No, it’s not like…” Tim frowns. “Look, Lester hates me. Plus, I haven’t atoned for Dakota yet, so… No, it won’t happen soon.”

Right, Dakota, Armie remembers. In a way he hasn’t atoned for it either.

“Lester is your boss? The birdman?”

“Yes,” Tim growls. “Lester Siskin.”

“Maybe we can do something about it,” Armie suggests.

“About Lester? What can you do about him, short of brain transplant?”

“No, I didn’t mean him,” Armie lovingly rinses the plate and puts it on the rack. “I meant you,” he glances at Tim.

“There is nothing wrong _with me_.”

“Certainly. But we can enhance what’s already there,” Armie says and waits again.

“You mean dick enlargement?” Tim stares at him. “I won’t do it! The rate of success is like 36%. I know statistics.”

“No, no, no! I wasn’t talking… No!” he takes a second to compose himself. “No, I meant your wardrobe.”

“Why are you interested in Lester all of a sudden, huh?” Tim ignores him.

“I don’t give a damn about Lester,” Armie sighs. “No, wait… Yes, I do. What does he wear?”

“What does he wear?” Tim repeats incredulously. “Are you tripping on tarragon, or what?”   

“Get away from me!” Armie brushes off his hand, when Tim tries to feel his forehead. “Have you ever heard about dressing according to position you want to occupy and not the one you currently have? I’m talking about that. So, what does your Lester wear?”

“I don’t want to occupy Lester’s position,” Tim grumbles. “His position is hot wife and intermittent hard-on. I’d hate everyone, too, in his place.”

No, Armie decides, at this rate he’ll retire in a bowtie. Enough of beating around.

“Tim,” he switches off the tap, “if you want a promotion, ever, you need to start dressing accordingly. I think I can help you. I have an idea.” And he hastily explains to his alpha what a personal shopper is and why they should hire one.

“No,” Tim replies after listening to him. “The last time someone went and bought stuff for me, it was my mom and I was 14. And besides, I won’t pay anyone just to buy socks for me. I can do it myself. Thank you.”

“Tim, if you don’t know anything about stock market, but have money and want to invest, what do you do?”

“You get an education, pass the exam, get a securities license, regis…”

“Or you hire a broker,” Armie cuts him off.

“Yes, that too,” Tim concedes.

“Personal shopper is such a broker. It is someone who’ll save you time and eventually money by buying things it’d take you probably years to find, because you wouldn’t know where to look or for what.”

“I have clothes, Armie.”

“It’s not only about clothes,” Armie takes his hand. “Tim, career is not about working hard. At least, not only. No matter how clever you are, people are people, they like shiny things, they are drawn to them. You know statistics,” he smiles. “Let’s make you shine.”

Tim doesn’t say anything.

“What?” Armie asks quietly.

“Is he expensive?”

“We’ll consider it a joint investment,” Armie dodges. “Eventual benefits will be mutual.”

“I can’t really affor…”

“I know,” Armie nods. “It’s fine. Again, we’ll both win in the end.”

“You really want it?” Tim looks at him then.

“I think it’s a good idea.”

Tim is thinking, then shrugs. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Armie smiles.

Next day he comes to Gina’s office and doesn’t have to explain much.

“I need Amanda,” he tells her. “The sooner the better.”

 

<> 

Amanda doesn’t make them wait long. Gorgeous Latina, or “Chicana, mijo, Chicana,” she appears at Armie’s door in a wide-brimmed black hat, blood-red lipstick and a cloud of perfume, managing to make a getup that would look cheap in Kentucky, sharp and dangerous in New York.

Armie feels a little intimidated, and it makes her smile brighter.

He trusts her, because Gina trusts her. He has no idea how they found each other, but he knows that these days Gina doesn’t buy anything – from panties to mink coats – without Amanda’s say-so. (They are a small studio – you sometimes pick up things you didn’t want to, including your boss’s panties, including literally.)

“So,” her eyes sparkle, “off the market is what I hear. Míralo!”

“Pues sí,” Armie shrugs.

“Qué lástima!” Amanda replies and they both know doesn’t mean it. “Ok, what’s the battle plan?”

“Total renovation,” he tells her, “from the cellar to the rafters.”

“No less?”

“If he lets you - no less.”

“Cheaper to demolish the building, you know?” she takes off her hat.

“No, we’ll keep the building,” Armie smiles. “It has sentimental value.”

“As you wish, sugarplum,” she smirks. “May I see the patient then?”

“Yes, of course.” Armie turns and calls, “Tim?”

There is a slight pause, then Tim appears from the bedroom in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Hello,” he glances at first at Armie, than at the woman.

“Hi.”

“Timothée,” he says politely, betraying his nervousness.

Yes, Amanda knows what she is doing with what nature gave her, Armie thinks.

“Amanda,” she replies distractedly and peruses him from top to bottom.

Tim glances at him again, and Armie tries to smile encouragingly. He knows that Amanda’s attitude is purely professional – she looks at you the way doctors study X-ray results: rarely with approval and not meant to be pleasant.

“What are you?” she asks Tim, apparently having arrived at a preliminary diagnosis.

“Um, accountant.”

“Big leagues?”

“IRS.”

“You’re government?” she raises one brow, more surprised than impressed.

“Yes.”

“Hm,” she silently looks at him again. “And what do you do? Like, every day.”

“Well, I’m a tax compliance officer. I investigate,” Tim says and, when she only nods, continues. “I check the statement taxpayer provides, and, if I see anything suspicious, I start gathering information, verifying the claims. If I turn out to be correct and the guy is lying, I file a report, requesting permission to open a case against him.”

“Got it,” she nods. “And when you find something, do you call the guy in and grill him?”

“Rarely. Most of the times I talk to his lawyer.”

“Aha. Where?”

“Where?” Tim is surprised.

“Yes, where? Do you have a business lunch? Is it in the office? What kind of office? Is it mahogany and leather or white walls and plastic chairs?”

“We have interview rooms, they look sort of like interrogation rooms in the movies.”

“Cheap and utilitarian then,” Amanda nods again. “Is there any food?”

“There is a pitcher of water usually, just that,” Tim replies and glances at Armie again.

“So it’s pricey lawyers, shabby office and you across the table,” she concludes.

Tim hesitates a second, but then nods, “Yes.”

“Do you do press?” she asks, ignoring his pause.

“No. We rarely deal with the press, unless the case is about some celebrity. But even then, we are discouraged from providing comments about any ongoing investigation.”

“Do you want to?”

“Do press?” he blinks. “No.”

“So you quietly catch bad guys, right?” she smiles. “How big?”

“There is no limit here,” Tim smiles too.

“What’s your record?”

“32 million,” Tim says and his back straightens a bit.

“That you caught?”

“That I found unreported, yes.”

At that Armie is impressed, but Amanda apparently isn’t.

“Is it a lot?” she asks.

This time Tim’s pause is longer. “No.”

“And did you win that case?”

“No.”

“Lawyers?” she raises her brow.

“Lawyers,” Tim nods. “But that time I was just an assistant. I mean I…”

“Who cares?” she waves him off. “You lost.” 

“I couldn’t do anything!” Tim’s nostrils flare. “And the guy was loaded – he could fight us till kingdom come!”

We are here about clothes, right? Armie wonders. He’s never seen Amanda at work, really. Maybe that’s her method, but it’s a far cry from Sammy.

“I worked with a guy from – what was it? – FDA? Yes, FDA,” Amanda says, not taking her eyes away from Tim. “He raised an alarm about some food additive, had proof that it caused liver cancer. They _savaged_ him – obliterated his reputation and ruined him financially.

“Now this additive is banned,” she smiles drily. “He was right. Who cares?”

“Happens all the time,” Tim agrees.

“Son todos hijos de puta, verdad?” she says suddenly.

Tim is going to reply something, but then reconsiders. “They are doing their job,” he shrugs.

“And shit on yours con gusto.”

“It is what it is.”

By now Armie has no idea where it’s all going, or even if he should be here right now.

“So what do you want?” Amanda asks, after some thinking.

“Promotion,” Tim glances at Armie.

“Promotion?” she frowns. “Really? You want money?”

“I…” Tim hesitates. “Well, money is fine, of course.”

“Ok, mijo, let’s try again. What people want is pretty SYMPL, as I like to say. They want sex, youth, money, power or love,” she looks at him piercingly. “What’s your poison?”

Tim frowns. “I want respect,” he says finally.

“So it’s power.”

“No, I want respect,” he insists.

“You usually respect people with abilities superior to yours. No matter what kind of abilities – to love, to make money, to fuck, to paint. No matter. The person you respect has power over you. I think _you_ want power,” she says briskly.

“You want to sit there, on your cheap government issued chair, and for once not to feel como un pendejo estúpido, whose time and efforts can be dismissed the way you dismiss a waitress. And it’s tough, when across the table, staring at you, there is a guy whose cufflinks cost more than your whole wardrobe.” She pauses, then adds, “I work with those cufflinks too, I know what they are capable of.”

“I want to be treated as an equal,” Tim replies and Armie sees angry red spots on his cheeks.

“No, you don’t,” Amanda shakes her head. “You want to say ‘ _I ask questions here’_ , and you want to hear ‘ _sí, Señor’,_ not ‘ _sure, boy.’_ ”

“And you can help?” Tim looks at her challengingly.

“And I can help,” she replies calmly.

“Like you helped that guy from FDA?”

“I provide ammunition – the war is yours to lose.”

They stare at each other silently.

“We good?” Amanda asks.

Tim narrows his eyes. “We good.”

“Ok, let’s get to it then,” she smiles, dives into her bag and gets a measuring tape. “Ready?” she smirks and snaps it like a whip.

Armie doesn’t know about Tim, but he probably wouldn’t be ready at all. Now he understands why they are getting along so well, she and Gina.

He looks at Tim and sees a familiar picture.

It’s vodka time, if only they had any.

“Why don’t you go into the bedroom and Tim will show you what he has? Maybe it will help you,” he suggests to Amanda. “I’ll make some tea in the meantime.”

He notices that Tim’s shoulders relax, and Amanda just shrugs.

“Un café para mí. After this I have a Chinese guy who’ll keep me up all night and not in the way I’d like it,” she winks.

“Coffee it is,” Armie smiles.

“Pues vamos, cariño,” she turns to Tim.

 

<> 

Armie has had time to discover that their kitchen has three types of coffee, five brands of tea and ungodly amount of spices since Tim took possession of it, when they finally emerge from the bedroom.

“Ok, I think I got it,” Amanda jots something down in her pocket notebook. “Durable?” she checks with Tim.

“Durable,” he nods.

“Ok,” she writes it down too. “Give me three days, guys. I have several collections in mind that are just in your price range. And there is one that arrives tomorrow – I have a deal with the house: Primae Noctis, so to speak. Thanks,” she takes the cup from Armie. “Don’t throw away the receipts and don’t damage the labels. I advise to try it all on within two-three days and make up your mind, if you want to keep it or not. Most of the items will be full refund, but don’t wash it. If you spill something on it, it’s fine, but don’t wash it. Ok?” she looks at them in turn.

They both nod.

Amanda stretches her neck, and rolls her head back and forth over her shoulders, visibly tired.

“Y mi muñeca,” she looks at Armie, “¿cómo está?”

“Gina is unsinkable,” Armie chuckles, “you know her.”

“Más le vale,” she sighs and finishes her coffee in one gulp. “Alright. Thanks again,” she raises the cup to him.

“I’ll show you out,” Armie suggests.

Amanda nods and goes to take her hat. “Good luck with your war,” she winks at Tim, but Armie doesn’t hear his response.

“Ok, so what’s the damage?” he asks quietly, when they stop by the door.

“Five grand will do it.”

Armie takes out his checkbook and sighs.

“You said from cellar to the rafters,” Amanda reminds him. “And don’t expect much – it’s just a sketch, a starting point. You’ll have to upgrade it regularly.”

“I’ll try,” he smiles.

“Hazlo,” she nods. “He deserves some grooming.”

“Ok, thanks,” he gives her the check.

Well, that wasn’t so bad, he thinks, closing the door after her.

In truth, he expected it to be more. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

Armie turns around, checkbook still in hand, and finds Tim looking at him from the door to the kitchen. He is not sure why, but he doesn’t like this look.

“So, that was Amanda,” Armie smiles awkwardly.

“Yes,” Tim looks at him darkly. “Do we need anyone else?”

“Anyone else?”

“Maybe you want someone to instruct me on how to brush my fangs, for example? How to cross the street? How to sneeze?” Tim smiles bitterly, “How to fuck you?”

“What is going on?” Armie puts his arms akimbo. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, just thinking aloud, you know?” Tim rolls his eyes. “I mean, I obviously want to accommodate you in every way. We can’t let your boy toy disappoint you, can we?”

“My boy toy?”

“Who pays the piper, calls the tune,” Tim scowls, “verdad?”

“This is about money? You want to throw temper tantrum over a couple of jackets?”

“A couple of jackets that you’re paying for, because I can’t afford it,” Tim says bitterly. “But then, I can’t afford any of this,” he looks around, “so it’s nothing new really.”

“So what do you want from me now? Apologize that I have a higher salary? Are we talking about that?”

“We are talking about dignity!”

“Yes,” Armie sneers, “and apparently yours is measured in dollars.”

“I’m the alpha, damn it!”

“And I’m omega. So?”

“So you don’t fucking get it!” Tim delivers the gut punch.

Or was it? No, that was straight to the balls.

“I don’t get it…” Armie repeats and nods. “Male ego, you mean? Why? Because half the country doesn’t consider me as such?”

“Don’t twist my words! I never said anything about that.”

“You didn’t have to. But that’s what it’s all about really,” Armie talks fast, without letting him interrupt. “You’re a man here, and you can’t quite feel like a man right now. So what should we do? I’ll quit my job and we’ll live in a garret just to prop up your fragile self-esteem? Is this the ideal picture?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen my salary yet,” Tim throws back, “we can hardly afford the garret. Not in this neighborhood, anyway.”

It all happens so quickly. It seems like only two minutes ago they were sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, and it was all alright. It was just another evening. And suddenly – Tim is three feet away and further than he was in February.

“You know what’s funny?” Armie sounds sad. “I’ve known you for months, I married you – and a stranger who met you an hour ago sees you better than me. She is right. You want power. You’re an alpha and you want power.”

“I want you to respect me.”

“No, you don’t. You want submission. Like in the good old days.”

“Look…”

“I looked. I don’t like what I see, Tim.”

“I don’t want these clothes,” is all Tim says.

“Then run after her and tell it to her yourself. I’m done. Do what you want. You’re the alpha,” Armie finishes mockingly and tries to move past him.  

“I’m just not enough for you,” Tim says quietly to his back. “The way I am, I am just not enough for you. I need some grooming…”

 

<> 

They manage to avoid each other for the rest of the evening.

Armie hides in his study and, not knowing what to do, ends up playing with his phone for a couple of hours. He doesn’t know what Tim is doing, the apartment is as silent as when he was living alone.

He sees him on his way to the bathroom, sitting in the living room, reading one of his enormous tax books. But he doesn’t say anything, and Tim doesn’t acknowledge his presence.

At bedtime Tim comes and stands by the bed, looks at Armie silently for a long moment, then asks only:

“Should I sleep on the couch?”

“I don’t know. Should you?” Armie replies, staring in his book.

Tim keeps standing there, then angrily grabs the pillow and marches into the living room. Doesn’t slam the door, but you can hear the sound.

Great, Armie closes his eyes momentarily, just great.

The lines mash together and don’t make sense. He knows he won’t be able to read anyway, but he has no idea what else to do either. He is not sleepy at all. He is bitter, angry, offended… and ashamed.

Road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions. It’s paved with stupid ones.

Why the hell did he need to intervene? Why couldn’t he leave it the fuck alone, Tim and his fashion choices? What did he think would happen?

He knew the situation was delicate. He knew Tim was proud. He knew no one likes to be taught a lesson or corrected in any way, and certainly not in the form that Amanda chose to deliver her sermon.

Amanda…

Fuck.

Amanda is brash. She is sharp, and sharp people too often slash blindly. She is a lot like Gina, and you have to get used to Gina to like her. Still, how many more Amandas will they meet in their life? Will it always end this way?

And be honest, he tells himself, it has nothing to do with Amanda. In scripts like this the call is always coming from inside the house. It’s never someone else – another woman, another man or a hot dog vendor – it’s you two, your fears, your grudges, your insecurities and your amazing capacity for destruction, so human and so sad.

You’re given something beautiful and you destroy it. Happens all the time.

Don’t believe it? Look at the planet Earth. Ask some dolphin choking on Texas crude, if it believes it. Hurry up though – takes 2-3 minutes to suffocate.

It’s June already, but it feels like February. It feels like a snowstorm, and this time he’ll have to brave it alone, because Tim is not coming to get him.

How the fuck did it happen? he asks himself again.

Why?

Money? Really?

Can it be only about money?

They say that everything is about sex, but sex itself. By the same token, no, it’s never about money. Because money is always about something else: ambition, talent, revenge, envy, self-respect…

Armie stops pretending and switches off the light. Ten minutes later the living room goes dark, too.

He remembers his divorce with Liz and how at the time he was thinking – if only we were mates, real mates, this wouldn’t have happened. If I were her Matthew, she would stay.

Then he met Tim and was thinking – but it’s only biology, and biology isn’t enough. However unbreakable the bond, it isn’t enough.

The truth, it turns out, is that nothing protects you from failure. There is no panacea, no magic solution. No matter how much you’re given, you’ll always find a way to fuck it all up, if you’re not careful.  

No amount of biology and scents and perfect genes will keep them together, if they aren’t willing to work for it. Even love isn’t a cure-it-all. Love weakens without everyday workout – heart is a muscle after all.  

But it’s not the end, he reassures himself. They fought before. Tomorrow is another day.

It’s not the end, he repeats and then realizes that it can be. In some minuscule unpredictable way, it can be. The first stupid stone in a long road.

It’s not about some bookcase this time. This is bigger, scarier. It’s about who they are to each other, and because of that this stupid block may be a cornerstone.

And if they don’t figure it out now, the opportunity may be lost. Like it was lost with Liz, when they didn’t figure out how to talk about what happened during that first heat; and then it was too late, only a week later, but it was too late, because first silence was already too comfortable to break.

Yes, it’s not the end, he tells himself again. Yes, tomorrow is another day. But it will be worse, maybe to the slightest degree, but it will be worse.

How quickly he got used to falling asleep on Tim’s chest, to hearing the slow faithful heartbeat, to feeling the heavy blanket covering them both…

The blanket is here. Tim is not.

He might get cold, Armie thinks. He gets cold so easily…

The thought, instead of melancholy and sadness, produces fear…

Then anger…

Then rage…

Then he is marching to the living room and is slamming the door himself, because otherwise he’ll smash something else.  

“Get up!” Armie roars on reaching the couch.

There is no need, though – Tim is sitting up, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet.

“Is this how you want to play it out? Like this?”

Tim opens his mouth…

“Shut up!” Armie cries again. “You shut up and you listen to me!” he points at him. “I thought we were building something? Is this how you want to build it? With hysterics?”

Armie glowers at him, but Tim follows the advice and keeps quiet.

“You want to be an alpha, Tim? Be a fucking alpha!” Armie continues. “I really doubt that stomping your feet and drowning in self-pity is what your grandpa meant when he was teaching you. I really doubt it!

“You want to make more money? You will, one day. Or maybe you won’t, but who cares? Only if you want to stake it all on this, then I have news for you - like hell you will! If you think, I’ll spend my days arguing over who is boss here, based on fucking income, then you’ll have to fight your battles somewhere else, because I don’t need this in my life!

“You think I what, married you to become a babysitter? To fret over what will set you off next time?

“I need a partner! I need a reliable person who has my back, who is ready to support me when I need it, who is old enough to understand what strength means. And strength has nothing to do with giving orders and breaking things, strength is about being able to bear all the unpleasant stuff that life throws at you. Because it will. And often.

“Because life is mostly dull and uneventful, mostly dinners and late night TV - until it isn’t, until it’s hell, without warning or explanation. And that’s when I’ll need you most of all and when posturing won’t help much.

“You can’t control yourself over this nonsense, and what if something serious happens? What will you do if you get sick, if you need my help? Start bitching?

“Because what I saw today… Do you know whom it reminds me of?” he looks at Tim, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “My father. Yes, my father, who was all about toughness, until the going got rough. And when it did, he turned tail and skedaddled, because his fucking pride was hurt. So I’ve had enough of pride for a lifetime – Gallic, Southern or any other kind. Too often, just like patriotism, it’s simply an excuse to be an asshole.”

Tim lowers his eyes and Armie sighs deeply.

“Maybe I ask too much of you, I don’t know. I realize that you’re young, that most people your age are all about parties and being cool, and all this drudgery of family and responsibilities doesn’t look so appealing, but what can I say? Tough. Now you have a family, so deal with it.

“You dragged me to that courthouse yourself. Well, here is that marriage you claimed you were ready for. Here it is.

“And I have more news for you - there are dozens of situations like today on the horizon, so buckle up and grow up. Yes, grow up. Because I’m ready for a long haul, but if I have to change your diapers at every turn, then no, thank you. If we can’t get past this, then everything we’re building will have a rotten foundation and won’t last.  

“Got it?” he asks tiredly.

“Got it.”

“Louder!”

“Got it,” Tim nods, but doesn’t look at him.

“Great,” Armie wipes his forehead. “And one more thing. You’ll hate to hear it, but you will nevertheless, because I suspect it has a lot to do with what is going on here.

“Your Eric…” he starts and Tim looks at him sharply. “No, listen. Listen! Your Eric, your Erica – they didn’t dump you because you weren’t tall enough, or alpha enough, or any of that, they dumped you because they didn’t love you.

“And it sucks. It sucks big time, when a person you love doesn’t love you back. But there is nothing you can do about it. _Nothing_. You can be the best guy in the world – strongest, smartest, kindest, anything – and they still won’t love you. And it’s not their fault, but it’s not yours either. It’s just that something that’s happening to you, it’s simply… it’s not happening to them, and that’s it. No why, no because. Painful and simple.”

Armie comes to him, hesitates briefly and then sits down at his feet. He tries to look him in the eyes, but Tim turns away.

“Tim,” he says quietly, “you’re a real alpha. You’re a wonderful alpha, and you have a potential to be even better, to grow stronger, to mature, and I want to be by your side every step of the way. I am ready to go with you wherever it is you’ll have to go - be it Dakota or fucking Kathmandu – I am ready go with you.

“And I don’t know, maybe it will take me a life to fully understand why I went after you that day and said yes in the end, but I don’t think I will ever regret this decision. You’ve given me so much, more than you probably realize, and _none of this_ has to do with the size of your wallet or your fangs,” he finishes and waits for some reaction, but there is none.

“Do you remember when we went to that couscous place?” Armie tries again.

Tim nods silently, but is still looking away.

“Well, something happened, and I didn’t even notice it then, I only realized it later…

“I didn’t wear my hat, Tim. I know it’s not much, but it’s…” he smiles. “I’ve been wearing that thing for the last ten years probably. Religiously. Everywhere. It was important, it helped… Maybe it made me feel safer. Yes, I guess that’s it.

“But that day I didn’t wear it, and not only I didn’t - I never even noticed it, I just forgot about it. Do you know why?” he takes his hand.

Tim shakes his head.

“Because I was with _you_. Because now _you_ make me feel safe. And that’s something only a real alpha can do for his omega - give this sense of security, let him relax.

“Tim, you don’t need to prove anything to me. You don’t need to fight me. There will be so many things to fight. Don’t turn it into a civil war.”

It takes several long minutes, finally Tim turns and keeps looking at their joint hands.

“We are not breaking up?” he asks at last, raising his eyes.

“No,” Armie shakes his head, “we are not breaking up. Do you think I’d break up with you after one quarrel?”

“I just… when you were talking there…”

“Tim, we need to stop this. That’s another thing – we need to stop bringing up divorce every time a cup breaks in this house. The joke is becoming old.”

Tim nods and swallows. “You will really go with me?” he asks and bites his lips.

“Where?” Armie smiles.

“Anywhere.”

“Yes,” he squeezes his hand, “I will go with you. You’re my alpha, it’s my place, by your side. I’ll go with you.”

“It won’t be Dakota though,” Tim sniffs.

“No?”

“Might be DC.”

“DC?”

“I’m a government employee,” Tim shrugs, “for me the only way up is down from here.”

“You want to go into politics?” Armie frowns.

“It may happen,” Tim looks at him searchingly.

“What are we talking about here? Like… like a president?”

“No,” Tim smiles. “Like Commerce, Treasury. Even Agriculture - I can get there with my background.”

“Agriculture?”

“It’s just a thought,” Tim shrugs again. “You never know with these things. You have to play your cards right.”

“And if you play them right?”

“And if I play them right, I can be a Treasury Secretary one day.” He pauses, then adds, “When I’m fifty or so.”

“Oh…” Armie relaxes. “Well, we have time until then, I guess.”

“I guess we do. I mean I’m just Small Business Division, New York. That’s like PFC.”

“And you want to be a general?” Armie raises his brow.

“Yes,” Tim nods. “Why bother otherwise?”

“And that offshore thing?”

“Well, that’s a colonel. Ten-twelve years and I’m there.”

“And we’re still in New York?”

“Yes, I can do it from New York. But, Armie, it’s all a pipe dream right now.”

“I know, I know.”

“And I won’t go without you anyway,” Tim whispers. “To DC, Dakota or fucking Kathmandu.”

“No?”

“No,” he smiles. “What’s a general without his Armie?”

“Now this is the corniest thing you’ve ever said,” Armie laughs.

“You haven’t read my poetry…”

“You didn’t!”

“I did,” Tim sighs dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

“Hence a D for Composition?”

“Oh, no! You think I was dumb enough to advertise it? No! I toiled in complete obscurity.”

“What did you toil _about_?”

“I don’t remember,” Tim says quickly.

“Oh yes, you do.”

“No, it’s all a blur.”

“Nothing rhymes with ‘income tax,’” Armie muses.

“Cadillacs,” Tim replies and then narrows his eyes. “No, no, no. No! I was a normal child! You think I wrote about income tax at 13?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“I wrote erotic haiku mostly.”

“Please expand on the topic. Please.”

“Sindy Crockett,” Tim purses his lips. “Her bust expanded between 7 and 8th grade. I wrote about that.” 

“In unrhymed Japanese verse?”

“Yes,” Tim nods, “in Japanese.”

“And there is no chance you kept some of those immortal lines?”

“None,” Tim shakes his head vehemently. “I want to be a Treasury Secretary one day – I can’t have this dirt on me.”

“What a loss!”

“No, it wasn’t. You can’t go against the grain - we aren’t an artistic family, apart from you.”

“So we’re a family,” Armie looks at him.

“Yes, we are.”

“You and me?”

“Yes, you and me,” Tim squeezes his hand. “Family.”

“And what about?..”

“It won’t happen again,” Tim promises.

“Wrong answer.”

“Wrong?”

“Tim,” Armie sighs, “of course, it will happen again. If not this, then something else. We’re human. Humans get mad at each other.”

“Then what do you want me to say?” Tim frowns.

“That you heard me. That you understand.”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Tim lowers his eyes again.

“Maybe,” Armie agrees. “But you lashed out _at me._ ”

“I’m sorry.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Armie, I want to give you everything,” Tim says desperately. “Everything! I promised it to you, and now I can’t.”

“Promised what, Tim? When?”

“Well, it was understood. I mean, I’m… I’m…”

“The alpha,” Armie finishes for him.

“Yes.”

“Tim, you’re 24. No one expects you to support a family now. I couldn’t afford this neighborhood at 24, either.” He looks piercingly at Tim, “And if you say anything about me being omega, then you haven’t heard a thing I said. Or worse, you don’t want to hear it.”

“I heard,” Tim mumbles.

“And?

“This is marriage. I understand.”

“Yes, it will be an uphill battle,” Armie sighs.

“I don’t want to fight,” Tim looks at him honestly.

“Me neither. But, Tim… do you see me as an equal?”

“No,” Tim frowns.

“No?”

“I see you as a gift.”

“Tim…”

“Wrong answer?” Tim groans.

“Tim, a gift is a thing. I’m not a thing.”

“Armie, I don’t get it!” Tim exclaims suddenly. “Why would you want to be equal to me? You’re smart, successful, beautiful, sophisticated. Why _in the world_ would you want to be equal _to me_?”

Armie stares at him.

“I think it’s the usual problem with you,” Tim rolls his eyes, “you judge yourself by a lower standard. You read so many books – couldn’t you pick someone better to compete with? Pick some president, or scientist, or some artist even.

“I mean, you can argue that a pound of wood and a pound of gold are equal in some sense, but then one is still gold, you know?”

Armie keeps looking.

“What? Wrong again?”

“I don’t know already,” Armie says tiredly. “What is this, anyway?” he tries to open Tim’s palm, because he feels that Tim is holding something.

“Oh… it is…” Tim tries to pull away his hand, then stops.

“What?”

Tim gives him a little dark box. Opening it, Armie finds two couple-rings inside, the kind that married and mated couples wear on their ears.

“Don’t tell me you wanted to give it to me today,” he groans.

“No,” Tim looks at the box, too. “I bought it last week.”

“Last week?”

Armie takes out one of the rings, which is a ring in name only; in reality it’s a chain, a thick ornate chain with small clasps to fix it along your ear rim. Blueish moonlight coming from the window makes it look like spilled mercury on his palm.

“You don’t want me to have it now?” he asks sadly.

“I… well, I want, yes, but… I didn’t want you to have _this._ It’s not… not what I wanted really.” Tim pauses and adds quietly, “It’s just silver.”

“And what did you want? Diamonds?”

“You don’t have to wear it…”

“Tim,” Armie ignores him, “I use the subway. I won’t last three stops there wearing diamonds.”

“I wanted to give you something better. It’s just silver.”

“Silver is a noble metal.” Armie looks at the chain on his palm, “And it’s simple and elegant, the way I like it. I’ll wear it.”

“You don’t have to,” Tim repeats.

“I know.”

“So you like it?”

“I do,” Armie nods.

“Is it enough for a ticket back to your bed?” Tim smiles cheekily.

Armie laughs, then weighs the earring on his palm, then bites it lightly.

“Yeah,” he nods, “it’ll buy you some time. Some, mind you. I’m learning to value myself higher.”

“How much time?”

“When you’re Treasury Secretary, then I want diamonds – or it’s back on the bench for you.”

“But you’re pricey, honey!”

“But I’m worth it,” Armie winks.

They look at each other. Tim smiles softly and wraps his arms around Armie’s shoulders.

“I heard you,” he whispers in his ear. “I’ll grow up.”

“Just don’t change much,” Armie whispers back and hugs him. “Just not much.”

 

<> 

Three days later Amanda returns with the trophies.

Armie brings the bags to the living room and sets them in two neat rows. There is a lot of stuff there, judging by the number.

They stand side by side and look at it silently.

“You want to return them?” Armie asks.

Tim scratches his cheek, then glances at him. “I think we should look at least. I mean… maybe there is something worth keeping, you know?”

“Ok,” Armie nods.

“Ok.”

They don’t move. Finally Armie takes a step forward, but Tim stops him.

“No. You sit here,” he points to the couch. “Wait. I’ll… um, I’ll put something on and… Sit here.”

“Ok.”

He goes to the couch, while Tim carefully gathers all the bags and disappears into the bedroom.

If we have another row over this, I’ll personally burn them all, he thinks. To hell with five grand. Not worth it.

He hates it, Armie concludes after twenty minutes of waiting. She bought something horrible, and he hates it. He’ll buy ten more bowties after this, just to prove his point.

Another five minutes pass.

Yes, he hates it, Armie is sure. He just doesn’t know how to tell me. He doesn’t want to disappoint me. He thinks he owe…

There is a quiet cough behind him.

Armie turns around.

“So?” Tim asks.

Armie blinks.

“Fuck me,” is his first coherent impression.

Tim looks at him worriedly.

“No?”

Armie nods mutely, then, “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Definitely.”

Definitely.

Tim in classic inky black suit that fits him like a glove, no tie, strict silver belt buckle and black socks is definitely yes.

Most definitely.

“Do I look older?” Tim asks.

“Yes,” Armie comes up to him and turns him around.

Sweet dreams are made of this, he thinks.

They are wrapped in silk linen and smell of his alpha.

“How much?”

“What?” Armie wakes up. “Oh, 26. At least,” he adds seeing Tim’s disappointment. “Another shirt and it’s 28 and not a day younger.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Armie assures him.

“Do I look like a douche?”

“Tim, you look… glorious,” Armie smiles. “Sharp, professional, confident, tough. You look the way you should.” 

“She said I’m one of the few men who can wear purple, without being a pimp,” Tim informs him and points to the shirt.

“It’s mauve.”

“What?”

“It’s not pure purple, it’s mauve. Purple with a shade of gray.”

“Can I wear moff?”

“You should,” Armie nods.

“There is more,” Tim bites his lip.

“More mauve?”

“More _everything_. Come,” he grabs Armie’s hand and drags him to the bedroom.

Their bed is piled with clothes of all types – shirts, pullovers, jackets, blazers, a couple of ties, turtlenecks, socks.

“Look,” Tim tugs a dark green shirt by the sleeve and shows him. “Can we keep it?”

“Yes,” Armie nods.

“Ok.” Tim picks a brown leather jacket. “And this?”

Armie nods again.

“Actually…” Tim starts digging for something else, “there is another shirt I liked, it was there somewhere… I think it could go with this tie… Where is this tie?” he frowns.

“Tim, let’s keep it all.”

“Everything?” Tim glances at him. “You haven’t seen everything.”

“I trust Amanda. And we decided that it’s an investment, for both of us. So I vote to keep it all, unless there is something that you don’t like.”

Tim looks at the bed thoughtfully.

“Oh!” he grabs a blazer from the pile. “That’s for museums and shit. I told her we need one.”

It looks like something an old man would wear to the park to feed pigeons. Armie has no idea what Tim asked from Amanda to receive this.

“Yes,” he nods. “Only not with mauve. Something blue.”

“There is blue!” Tim dives for another trophy and produces a light blue shirt.

“Aha.”

“There are belts, too,” Tim shows him.

“Yes, very nice.”

“I like this buckle.”

Armie nods.

“She said…” Tim tries to remember, “Light jeans – not for me. Also, no frills, no embroidery, no…” he thinks. “Nothing folksy.”

Oh, thank fuck, Armie celebrates silently. Bonfire of the sweaters is coming. Gas is on me.

“Hm, I don’t remember, but she must have written it here,” Tim shows him a piece of paper and starts reading. “Right, no yellow, no orange, no warm green. Why not warm green?”

“It doesn’t mean it’s _warm_ warm. It’s like grass in the sun,” Armie chuckles.

“Ok,” Tim nods, reassured, and continues. “Good – emerald, ruby, mauf – you were right! – black, navy blue and royal blue. I like it – royal blue. What’s royal blue?”

Armie searches among the shirts. “This one.”

“Why is it royal?”

“Hm, if I remember correctly, it was made specifically for some English monarch. I may be mistaken.”

“Purple is royal too, right?” Tim looks at him.

“It was, for a long time,” Armie smiles.

Tim goes back to the notes. “No Hawaiian, no prints, no geometrical, no tie-dye, no chalk-stripe, no houndstooth, no seersucker. What the hell is this?” he frowns.

“I think she meant patterns. This tooth, I don’t know what it is, but the rest – yes, they are patterns.”

“Seersucker?”

“It’s better than it sounds.”

“Is it here?” Tim demands.

“Tim, she wrote that it’s not for you. It wouldn’t be here.”

“Good. I’ll never wear it,” Tim decides.

“No, you are a royal blue type,” Armie agrees.

“And moth!” Tim raises his finger.

“Yeah, that too.”

Tim looks at the bed. “There are socks, all black.”

“Good.”

“She also bought underwear,” he sounds puzzled.

“Well,” Armie shrugs, “roads to promotion are many and winding.”

Tim doesn’t understand at first, then looks at him in honest outrage. “ _My_ road isn’t winding through Lester’s bedroom. He is third-tier, anyway.”

“Huh, and if he wasn’t?”

Tim is actually thinking it through. “No, I’m married now.”

“Glad to hear it,” Armie says drily.

“Come on! You have to suck someone off, at least aim for a commissioner.”

“No, sweetheart,” Armie shakes his head, “you’ll have to rise on your merit alone, I’m sorry.”

“Would have been faster, though,” Tim smiles.

“We’ll go slow. As usual.”

Armie notices something among the underwear and fishes out a pair of briefs – black with a huge red heart sign and letters YUM! on the backside. He shows it to Tim.

“That must be for you,” Tim tells him.

“For me?” Armie almost drops the garment.

“Not to wear - to enjoy. I asked her to… well, to add something that you’d appreciate. I guess that’s it. You want to see it?” he looks at Armie.

“No, wash them first.”

“If we wash them, we can’t return them,” Tim grins.

“Wash them,” Armie huffs.

Tim returns to the note. “There is a P.S. Shiny shoes and creased tie – money, tanned – youth, shoulder pads – sex, no tie and no jewelry – power, late and apologizes for it – love.”

He looks at Armie. “And P.P.S. Cufflinks: better none, than cheap. Black and silver. Gold is not your metal.” He bites his lip, “Well, I guess, that’s it. In general.”

They stare at the bed again.

“Do you like it?” Armie asks him.

Tim shrugs.

“You like color, Tim. If it’s not… We don’t need to keep any of it, if it’s not what you wanted,” Armie glances at him sideways.

“But I want to be a Treasury Secretary, too,” Tim smiles softly, “and I want to look 28. Plus, I still have my grandma’s sweaters.”

Oh fuck. No bonfire. Hello, mothballs.

“Then we’ll keep it?” Armie asks.

“All of it?”

“If you want to.”

“Armie, how much?..”

“Investment, Tim. It’s an investment.”

Tim sighs. “Investment.”

After some more digging they find a black t-shirt with a silhouette of an owl wearing glasses. It looks so much like his alpha that Armie changes his mind.

No, Tim, he thinks, _this one_ was for me. Not to wear, to enjoy.

Luckily, Tim doesn’t see the resemblance, and Armie doesn’t alert him. He wants to keep it.

Heart briefs are sent to Jackie that same night.

 

<> 

Now, Armie has an artistic disposition. It doesn’t end with foam sculpting and museum-hopping, either. It spreads to cinema, too, meaning that words “indie” and “limited audience” in a review sound suspiciously like “must-see” to him.

Tonight he spots one of those movies in programming and decides that Tim’s horizons should be broadened cinematically as well. 

With force, if necessary.

He has no idea what his alpha likes to watch besides evening news, but, as Tim admitted, he “understands” – “this is marriage.” So Armie doesn’t worry much.

And if Tim resists…

Well, he can be threatened, subdued or bribed. Even persuaded, if it comes to that. Hopefully, it won’t. Hopefully, threats will be enough.

Thus, Armie lets his spouse know about upcoming festivities.

Tim doesn’t exactly resist, but:

“Record it, if you want,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you. Wait in the kitchen.”

To Armie “the kitchen” basically means Tim’s home office, so he suspects that it is business. Though, what business on a Friday night?

“What is it?” he asks seeing Tim returning with a brown leather folder in his hands.

“Sit down,” Tim replies.

Armie complies and Tim joins him at the table.

“Ok,” Tim opens his folder and scans the document inside. “So, we decided that it’s joint checking account, right?”

Armie nods.

“Retirement fund and investment fund – separate. Meaning that all one’s savings prior to this marriage are off limits to the other.”

Armie nods again. “You’re ok with it?”

“My investment fund is 236 dollars, as of right now,” Tim shrugs. “I’m ok with it. It’s fair. Was it like this in your first marriage?”

“Um, no,” Armie remembers, “we had it all together. Then we just split it in half during divorce.”

Tim nods. “Ok. I think we should agree that in case of our divorce we’ll split the amount accumulated during the cohabitation proportionally to the salary we’ll have at the time. If it’s still – yours is three times mine, then you’ll have ¾ and I ¼. It’s highly unlikely that I’ll get a sudden and disproportional raise just before our separation, but if it happens, then we’ll calculate based on the average over time. Basically, you’ll leave with what you came in. Sounds good?”

“Well, yes.”

“If you have doubts, you should seek independent counseling. This is reasonable.”

“Tim, stop talking like this,” Armie winces.

“Like what?”

“I feel like… Like I’m in your office.”

“It’s a serious matter,” Tim looks at him.

“I know, but… I’m your husband, not a subject of investigation.”

“Ok,” Tim agrees. “But that was basically it for a post-nup. The only question left here is children.”

“Children?” Armie looks at him surprised.

“Yes,” Tim nods calmly, “if we have children. I suggest that then it should be ¾ to ¼ in your favor, no matter how much I bring to the table.”

“Do we have to decide it now?”

Tim wants to say something, but then reconsiders. “No, we can include this provision later.”

“Then later,” Armie says firmly.

Tim looks at him, then nods. “Ok. Later.” He puts away the paper he was looking at and turns to another one. “Now taxes. I went through it and I have news for you,” he scans the page to be sure. “Bad news – you’re overpaying, good news – you’re married to me and I know these laws better than those fools you hired before.    

“First of all, spouses pay less when filing jointly. That’s easy. It’ll propel me to another bracket, but fine – I found ways to make up for it.

“There are several. Starting with the fact that you get a tax break for your environmental protection contribution.”

“My what?” Armie blinks.

Tim starts going through his notes and finds something. “You sent a hundred bucks to Alligator Conservation Fund,” he looks at Armie. “It was a smart move, because the one you chose is affiliated with PETA, and they lobbied for a special status for such organizations. Now, what you have to do is send similar amount every quarter to prove consistency, and by the end of this tax year you can be considered an environmentalist. And, you get a deduction.”

“Alligator fund?” Armie tries to remember and can’t.

“You like them?”  

“I’m not sure… I guess it was an impulse,” he shrugs.

“It was good, as I said. You chose the right guys,” Tim says approvingly. “Now, I researched what other similar funds are there and I decided on bees. Bees are important and will give me a tax break, too. So you mind your reptiles and I’ll mind my bees, and we’ll have another nice deduction,” he winks. “Only don’t go over the top there. Your gators are fine - they don’t know how to get rid of them in the swamps - but they are useful for us.”

“Good,” Armie smiles.

“Ok, next,” Tim finds another document. “There is a statute that covers Community Building Oriented Activity. You qualify.”

“Really?” Armie is amused.

“I donated your microwave dinners to a homeless shelter. In your name, of course. They were grateful, and they gave me a receipt. And another deduction,” Tim smiles. “In this case consistency means at least two quarters and not necessarily consecutive. In November I’ll bring them more, and you can be declared a local patron saint of the destitute.” Adding modestly, “This is a rather obscure regulation.”

“This is very clever, Tim,” Armie smiles.

“Thank you,” Tim nods and looks at his papers again. “Ok, all this was for the future, but there is something you should have been using for a long time and didn’t. And the people who helped you were probably too lazy to figure it out.

“There is a local initiative in New York promoting female entrepreneurs and guaranteeing partial exemption. You qualify.”

“In what way?” Armie frowns.

“Through Gina.”

“Through Gina? I’m only an employee. And a guy.”

“There is such thing as integral employee. It means that your loss will significantly affect profitability of the enterprise as a whole. You have a right to know your importance and value to the company, and you can request such information at any time. I did. You’re an integral employee.”

“I still don’t see…”

“She doesn’t want to lose you, Armie. You’re important,” Tim tells him. “And being an integral employee _can be_ and _is_ interpreted as support. You support female entrepreneurship and as a result you get your exemption. For good behavior.” He smiles beatifically.      

Armie, though, doesn’t like where it’s going.

“Tim, that’s really…”

“What?” Tim frowns.

“Seedy.”

“How?”

“I didn’t help Gina to create the studio. When I came, she had an already successful company. It’s not fair,” Armie says firmly.

“It’s the law,” Tim disagrees.

“I don’t want it.”

“Armie, Gina won’t lose a nickel as a result of this,” Tim sighs. “It affects only you.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“Now, you listen to me. Do you think I put a gun to her head to get this information? I only had to ask, and she didn’t need to think long about it.”

“If she wanted me to know about this, she would have told me,” Armie replies.

“Who? Gina?” Tim is angry suddenly. “Why the fuck does she have to _tell you_ this? It’s _your_ responsibility to know your rights and exercise them.”

“Tim, I appreciate your efforts, but… I don’t like it.” He tries to explain it, “It’s just… It’s not nice.”

“Nice? Wow. Ok. Then prepare yourself, because it gets uglier – you can claim another exemption and this too thanks to Gina.”

“What now?”

“Gina is a minority.”

“As a veteran of four husbands?” Armie chuckles.

“Ethnic.”

“Tim, it’s just tan. Trust me, I know. It comes and goes according to her trips to Cancún.”

“It’s not about her tan. Gina has a Guatemalan grandmother.”

“Really?” Armie looks disinterested.

“Yes,” Tim nods, “and if you think she didn’t milk said granny for all she is worth, you’re deeply mistaken. There are tons of programs and she used them all. And not because she is seedy or ‘not nice’ - she used them because it’s her right, given to her by law. She was smart. She stood up for herself because she knew no one else would.

“And stop with this ‘Gina, poor Gina’ nonsense. Dear Virginia sharpened her fangs on guys tougher than you and me combined, she can take care of herself.”

“Tim, I can’t use this against her.”

“Fuck, Armie,” Tim sounds exasperated, “you’re not using anything against her. You don’t harm her in any way. She has nothing to do with it. You’ll use the same laws that helped her, that’s all. And you _will_ use them.”

Armie looks at the table.

“I could never understand this,” Tim continues, “people are constantly bitching about taxes and pay them, but when it comes to what your government actually owes you, then no one knows shit, and even when you tell them, it’s still _oh no, I don’t need charity, no handouts for me._

“Armie, it’s not charity. It’s your fucking right. It’s your money that you are entitled to keep.” Tim tells him and waits for a reply, but doesn’t get any. “Look, you don’t need to do anything. I did it all, she faxed all the documents to me already. You want to stay a good guy, you will.” He finishes briskly.

“It’s not about being good…”

“It’s about being nice. I get it. Well, I’m not nice. I don’t give a fuck about nice, when it’s your interests we are talking about.”

“Do what you want,” Armie tells him, sounding bitter.

“Thank you. Much obliged. I only had to go through the whole New York tax code to find it. You’re welcome.” Tim shuffles some papers. “As a result of it all – your income after taxes increases 16%.”

“Our income,” Armie says quietly.

“Well, then less, but yes. Our income increases.”

“Ok. Is it all?”

“No, there is more. This was about taxes, now we’ll talk about…” Tim pauses to shake off the irritation. “Again there are things you need to know. Important things.”

“Ok,” Armie sighs.

“I have a pretty safe job,” Tim starts. “The leading cause of death among tax collectors is the same as among the general population – cardiovascular diseases. But even if I drop from a heart attack while still employed at the IRS, you’re entitled to a life-long pension, as my spouse. It’s not much, but it’s there and it’s yours. Again I prepared all the necessary documents,” he taps the paper in front of him.

“Tim…”

“What? You don’t need it? It’s not nice?”

“No… well, yes, I don’t…”

“Ok, I don’t even want to go there. Your ethical dilemmas are simply beyond me,” Tim waves him off. “I’ll only say this – it can happen at any moment. That’s the scenario you were talking about the other day: today is dull, tomorrow is hell. Life. And if something happens, though the law is again on your side in this, this pension is not automatic; you’ll have to do some legwork to get it. Tell me that you will. That’s all I need from you right now.”

“It’s important to you?” Armie looks at him.

“Yes, it is.”

“Alright, yes, I will.”

“Ok,” Tim looks at him and frowns. “Armie, I love my brethren, but I know them too – and we can fuck with you the way no other people on earth will dream of. Bureaucracy is bureaucracy, and it’s there for a reason. So you’ll be sent from office to office and meet some dreary unpleasant people, and all these people will try to say to you – please, fuck off, we don’t want more paperwork.

“Someone will mention that you don’t really need it, someone else will remind you about malnourished children and crumbling infrastructure; there even can be someone who will want to know if you’re really a citizen, who will hint that you don’t look like one, and why is that? There are all kinds of nasty people there.

“But there is a cure and I bequeath it to you – you go there, you sit and listen and all that you say in the end is: _Give me my fucking money._ Don’t make a scene, be civil, be polite. Listen, then - _Give me my fucking money._

“Got it?” Tim looks at him expectantly.

“I got it,” Armie smiles.

“I’m not joking, Armie.”

“Tim, I understand.”

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“No, about the money.”

“Tim, I promise that in unlikely event…”

“Why can’t you say it?” Tim doesn’t let go.

“Give me my fucking money,” Armie tiredly recites. “Good?”

“You’ll be removed from the premises immediately, if you say it like that.”

“What, I have to shout?”

“No, you have to mean it.”

“I’m not like you, Tim. I understand everything and I will do it, but I’m not… It’s not in me, you know?”

“Armie, there is no reason why anyone should walk all over you – me or anyone else. Ever. You can do it. You can do it just fine. But you wait until the last minute and make it worse, that’s the problem.”

He thinks for a second, “Do you know why Lester hates me? How it started?”

Armie shakes his head.

“Well,” Tim sighs, “one of the perks of my job is free parking – all 50 states plus territories. It’s one of the things you receive when you become a full-time employee. Now, Lester one day decided that it can be removed from my contract. You know why?”

“You don’t have a car,” Armie guesses.

“Exactly!” Tim explodes. “I don’t have a car! Who the fuck cares if I have a car or not?! I have free parking and it’s mine. And I have a space in our lot, and it’s mine too. And that’s it,” he slams the table.

“So he wanted me to sign this new version and I said no. I said _fuck no_. Go and put it back there, or I’ll sue your ass for discrimination and harassment. Well, he put it back, and now he hates me, and I’m suddenly a pixie when he is a 5’9” beta.

“But he put it back,” Tim looks at him. “I still have my free parking. 50 states plus territories.”

“Ok,” Armie nods.

“Ok what?”

“Ok, I’ll fight them tooth and nail for my pension,” he smiles.

“You better. And for insurance, too.”

“Insurance?”

“There is also insurance. In case I perish from something work-related, besides despair. I made you the beneficiary and I don’t want any comments. It’s all here, just don’t forget about it. Ok?”

“I may comment?”

“You may say _of course, my alpha._ ”

“I’ll restrain myself then.”

“But you won’t forget?”

“No,” Armie promises, “I won’t forget.”

“Great. We’re almost over.”

“Money again?” Armie groans.

“Yes, money. I bought another life insurance – for everything besides work. Just in case. You’re the beneficiary there, too.”

“And how much?”

“Well, not much, to be honest,” Tim admits. “The parachute isn’t exactly golden, but it will allow you to land without breaking your neck at least. On a bright side, you won’t be constantly tempted to off me and get rich. This way I can sleep peacefully, knowing that I’m safe with you and you’re safe if I’m suddenly not.”

“Very neat,” Armie agrees. “And if I kill you for free one of these days?”

“I don’t recommend it,” Tim says seriously.

“Why?”

“You won’t get away with it. You’re not the type.”

“Well, who knows? After all this pep talk…”

“No, don’t. For killing your true mate they’ll give you a life without parole. Juries are full of romantics.”

Armie looks at him thoughtfully.

“Tim, tell me honestly, did you do all this because of what I said? That you have to grow up? Because it’s not what I meant.”

Tim opens his mouth, but then just slides the folder towards him. “Look at the dates. Armie, I started compiling these documents three-four days after our wedding.”

Armie doesn’t even glance at the papers. “Alright,” he sighs. “I guess, I’ll do it too.”

“No,” Tim replies immediately. “At least not right now. That’s an emotional response, you feel obligated. You want… to be nice, and it’s not about that. Right now I want you to know that these papers exist and I want you to remember it. You may need them.”

Armie thinks about it. “Ok. Not now.”

“Ok,” Tim nods. “To the family then. Let’s start with yours.”

“Family?” Armie looks at him, surprised.

“Yes.” Tim smiles, “Now that you suddenly have a brother in Miami, I’m curious.”

“Suddenly,” Armie scoffs. “There is nothing sudden about him. He’s been around for 32 years.”

“And your mom? Is she there too?”

“Yes, she moved some time ago. Gordon got married and they had a child, so she joined them to help around.”

“And your dad?” Tim asks quietly.

“I have no idea where he is. Last check he sent was from California. Maybe he is there still,” Armie replies dismissively.

“Do you want me to find him?”

“ _My dad?_ What for?”

“Is he a criminal too?” Tim chuckles.

“Tim, my brother isn’t a criminal!”

“How sure are you? On a scale from 1 to 10?”

“Tim, he is legit!”

“Just your gut feeling. 8? 9?”

“7.”

“7?” Tim raises one brow.

“Alright, 5.”

“So you have no idea,” Tim nods. “What is it? Some Medicare scam? Because it’s either that or cocaine. I mean, it’s Miami we’re talking about.”

“My brother isn’t a drug dealer!” Armie is outraged. “Look, he has a… He opened a couple of halfway houses down there. He manages them together with his wife. I don’t know the details.”

He waits for Tim to ask if it has anything to do with their mom and her own problem. But Tim doesn’t. And even if he did, Armie wouldn’t know what to say. He meant to ask Gordon a couple of times, but it seemed somehow inappropriate.

Too much time, too much distance, too much pain apart.

When you leave, you leave. Family is no exception.

“Alright,” Tim says after a pause. “I’ll ask around, to know if it can hurt us in any way.”

“Your career?”

“In any way.”

Armie lowers his eyes.

Shame. It hits him suddenly. My family, I don’t even have a normal family, he thinks. I can’t even talk about them.

Tim clearly misunderstands his silence, because he touches his hand and says, “Hey, I’ll be very discreet. He won’t be in trouble. Not because of me anyway. I promise.”

Armie nods.

“Do you have anyone else?”

“No,” Armie looks at the table. “There are some distant uncles and aunts, but we’ve never even exchanged letters. I don’t know any of them. We’re a small family.” He shrugs.

“Well, in that you’re mistaken, my friend. We’re a pretty large family,” Tim informs him.

He moves the folder back to him and produces several stapled together sheets of paper.

“Take a deep breath,” he warns Armie and lays it on the table in front of him.

“What is it?” Armie frowns.

“Your family. As of today and till the end.”

“This is a spreadsheet.”

“Yes.”

“Who are all these people?” Armie scans the page.

“I told you. Our family. Our as in yours and mine. Chalamets and branches.”

Armie finishes the first page and goes to the next one, then starts leafing through them.

“82 people?” he asks, stunned.

“And counting,” Tim replies proudly. “Couple are pregnant now.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Use it. I’ll send you an electronic copy later, it will help. Look, we are dispersed, but we still try to maintain contact. Here,” he points to the document, “you’ll find all the information you need – birthday, current residence, short bio. And in electronic version there will be links to the photos, too.”

“It’s, um… interesting,” Armie replies politely, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s a headache, that’s what it is, but responsibility is responsibility. I’m glad someone will share it with me now.”

“Share what exactly?”

“It’s simple,” Tim explains. “There are three occasions on which you have to use this table – birthday, New Year and newsworthy family event. The last one means – birth, death, wedding, divorce or major accident. On these three occasions you sit down and write a letter. Something short. Be warm but succinct.”

Armie looks at him, then back at the paper in his hand.

“When you say write a letter you mean _me?”_ he clarifies.

“Yes, it’s your family too now.”

“82 people?”

“Look, for New Year and event - one letter is enough. For birthdays you send individual congratulations, of course.”    

“Tim, I have no idea who they are.”

“For that you have a spreadsheet,” Tim smiles.

“They don’t know me.”

“They do. I sent a letter after we got married.”

That’s how it usually happens – slowly and then all at once.

“No,” Armie whispers, “no”. And it hits him, “Hell no!”

“Look,” Tim says calmly, “couples can cheat – we can send one letter from us both.”

“Great!”

“41 are still yours, though.”

“Tim, sweetheart,” Armie tries to negotiate, “I’m really not the type of person… what they’d call a people person. Well, I’m definitely not that.”

“I know. It’s fine. You’ll have your time to digest,” Tim looks at him kindly and starts leafing through the pages. “Today is what, June 6? Ok. Yes. Next birthday is June 27. Lourdes Mendoza.” He looks up.

“Lourdes Mendoza?” Armie repeats dumbly.

“Yes, you can test your skills on her. June 27, and she turns 27. Good omen for you.”

“Who _is_ she?”

Tim goes back to his document. “Ummm… ok, grandpa Gui, he had three brothers, one is dead now. Well, Lourdes is a granddaughter of Claude, he is still alive. So she is a granddaughter of my great-uncle. What do you call it?”

“No idea,” Armie mumbles.

“Well, call her cousin. I call most of them cousins, it’s easier.”  

“I can’t write to her! I won’t!”

“That’s rude,” Tim notes. “She congratulated us with our wedding.”

“Tim, I’ve never met her. I don’t know her!”

Tim frowns, “Do you celebrate Christmas?”

“…yes.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“Whom?”

“Birthday boy.”

Armie tries to say something, doesn’t.

“Then I don’t see why you can’t write to our cousin Lourdes!” Tim concludes.

“You can’t really compare…”

“Armie, it’s three sentences max. You can’t write three sentences? _‘Hello. Happy birthday! We love you. Greetings from New York.’_ You can’t do _that_?”

“That’s all?”

“It’s her birthday!” Tim exclaims. “You think she has time to sit and read 82 letters. I told you – warm but succinct.

“That’s why we’re still civil to each other - we don’t grate on each other’s nerves constantly. Besides birthdays and New Years, only a newsworthy event. _‘It’s December and, fuck me, it’s snowing’_ – isn’t an event. You have social networks for this shit and people there hate each other, and no wonder,” he grumbles. “So, will you write to our cousin Lourdes?”

_Our_ cousin Lourdes…

“I will write to our cousin Lourdes,” Armie says resignedly.

“Good boy,” Tim smiles. “Now, she is Basque, so don’t get smart and write to her in Spanish.”

“Oh hell! How?..”

“Spreadsheet,” Tim points. “Armie, great family is a great responsibility. And you have a great family, Hammer – you’re a Chalamet.” He frowns, “To me at least.”

_Our_ cousin Lourdes.

_Our_ family.

82 fucking people.

Why couldn’t I marry an orphan, for fuck’s sake?

“Tim, I can’t digest any more. It’s quite enough for one evening,” Armie warns him, seeing that his spouse is going to say something.

“No, no, there is nothing to digest here,” Tim assures him. “My dad is back in the States and Pauline is in town too. We’re having dinner with my folks next week. Friday is ok with you?”

“Your dad?” Armie blinks.

“My dad.”

You call that _nothing to digest?_

“Yes, Friday is ok,” Armie says and decides to freak out about it tomorrow, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t have strength now.

“Great!” Tim smiles. “I’ll tell Mom. Now let’s take a picture and we’re done.”

“What picture?” Armie groans.

“We need our picture for the spreadsheet. People need to know who you are. I didn’t want to send anything without your permission,” Tim says and gets out his phone.

“But,” Armie looks around, “like this?”

“Yes, like this,” Tim moves his chair closer to him and raises the phone.

“Is this really necessary?”

“It’s just one picture,” Tim kisses his cheek. “Nothing grand. Just one.”

They both look at the screen.

“Alright?”

Armie shrugs and prepares himself.

“No,” Tim says suddenly and looks behind him. “I told you we need a painting for this wall, or something. Now we look like two hostages in undisclosed location. Let’s go somewhere else!”

So he grabs Armie and drags him to the living room.

“Bookshelves?” Armie proposes tiredly.

“No, that’s pretentious.” Tim is looking around and thinking. “Your crystal ball!” he exclaims suddenly. “Yes, there. This is perfect. Come!”

They come to the console table on which the sphere stands.

“Sit here. What is this again? Tablet?”

“Tabourette.”

“Perfect,” Tim nods, “sit on your tabourette and I’ll stand right here.”

Tim stands beside him, props one elbow on his shoulder and raises the phone again.

“Ok?”

Armie looks.

“No,” he decides. “I look like a fat midget at this angle.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Now ok?” he sits on Armie’s lap. “Better?”

“Better.”

“Move the ball closer.”

“Aha! So now you like my sphere?”

“It adds something,” Tim nods. “Literally je ne sais quoi, but it does. Move it. Aha. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“No, don’t smile. Doesn’t look natural on you. Be yourself.”

“Myself?” Armie frowns.

“Yes, like this.”

“I smile all the time!”

“With me. And it’s for my eyes only, it’s private. No need to flaunt it in front of 80 people,” Tim kisses his cheek. “Ok, ready?”

“Ready,” Armie sighs.

Tim takes a picture. They both look at it.

“I think it’s fine. They’ll crop out your face and add it to the database. It’s good. You’re ok with it?”

“It’s nice,” Armie has to agree.

“Ok,” Tim nods and saves the photo.

Armie pushes him from his lap and gets up, carefully moving his beloved art piece back to the center of the table.

“By the way,” Tim is still at his phone, “I didn’t see any new loofahs in the bathroom.” He glances at Armie.

Armie is so surprised that he can’t say anything coherent or convincing.

Tim slowly puts down his phone. “What did you smuggle into my house, omega mine?”

“Nothing!”

“Nothing?” Tim purrs.

“Nothing,” Armie takes a step back for some reason.

“Nothing at all?

“At all.”

“No,” Tim looks at him lovingly, “you won’t get away with murder, darling. Don’t try.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Armie swallows.

“Just something I wanted to tell you,” Tim says slowly and starts unclasping his wristwatch, slowly; his eyes never leaving Armie. “Wanted to tell you for a very long time. Since I saw you. That day at my mom’s.”

He loosens the buckle and slides the watch from his wrist, gently puts it on the table, beside the sphere.

“What?” Armie follows all his movements.

“Run.”

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” Tim inhales deeply, “you definitely did.”

“You can’t be ser…”

“You get to that door,” Tim motions to the bedroom. “I’ll go easy on you.”

And he starts taking off his t-shirt.

Armie blinks.

T-shirt lands on the sphere.

Tim licks his fangs, slowly.

Darling. My darling.

_RRRRRUN!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU!


	12. Chapter 12

Sunday, Armie freaks out. Planned to do it on Saturday, but plain forgot between this and that.

On Saturday there was another pizza, another visit to the supermarket, a movie that he wanted Tim to watch, and then Tim watched it, and then…

“Sorry, I like my movies with a plot,” he said.

“There is a plot!” Armie protested.

“Where? It’s just some chick walking around town and sighing. For an hour and a half.”

“Yes, and the plot is universal human alienation,” Armie said primly.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Armie nodded. “For example, if you watch closely you see that every time she passes a shop window, she stops and looks in the glass, but all she sees is her own reflection. Every time.”

“That’s just physics,” Tim sighed.

“It’s not physics. It’s symbolism. She is incapable of seeing anyone else, as are most people. She is trapped in her loneliness, she is doomed. Existential solitude as immutable human condition.”

“And that’s the plot?”

“Yes, and it’s profound.”

“This is perverse!” Tim exclaimed. “There is a suicide epidemic in this country – and they choose to broadcast _this?_ ” He shook his head, “I don’t want you to watch this crap. You only need an excuse to get depressed.”

“It’s a masterpiece!”

“It’s bullshit!” Tim said firmly. “Doomed? She is young, beautiful, healthy, she has that guy pining after her. Trust me, minimum wage would cure her immutable condition very soon.”

“Rich people have problems, too!”

“Yes,” Tim nodded, “and this is not one of them. _This_ was invented by some insipid dude whose wife is banging someone else, because he decided that we are all doomed. Give me a break!”

“It’s beautiful,” Armie insisted.

“And dull as hell. No dialogues, no music, nothing happens for an hour and a half. How am I supposed to… What should I feel looking at her? What does she even want? She needs to want something.” 

“She wants to get to terms with her pain.”

“She wants to die,” Tim said suddenly, “and doesn’t have the guts to pull the trigger. That’s it. There is nothing else there. Don’t watch this.”

“I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because I understand it,” Armie looked at him.

Tim sighed. “Have you ever watched anything else?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And this is the only stuff you liked?”

“No,” Armie thought. “I like dramas in general, but I also… I don’t like comedies, but otherwise…”

“You don’t like comedies because you watched them alone probably,” Tim replied. “It’s hard to laugh in empty room.”

Armie blinked. “Well, I…”

But he didn’t know what to say.

“Ok,” Tim started browsing the programming schedule and at last found something. “Right, this will be good. We bought mini buns, so I’ll make some ham and cheese sandwiches, and we’ll watch something more uplifting.”

“What?”

“You owe me for that dose of gloom,” Tim pecked him on the nose and got up.

What Tim made him watch afterwards was a tight-paced Wall Street thriller that Armie never expected to like and somewhere around the middle did.

“I don’t understand it,” he frowned. “What does he mean, ‘You look very green to me’? Like young? The guy is fifty or so.”

“No,” Tim shook his head. “He means greenmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“No, greenmail. You see that guy bought enough stock of the company so that he can take over, if he wants to. Unless the owner, this guy,” Tim pointed at the screen, “will buy it back, with a loss, of course.”

“Because the owner slept with his husband?”

“Aha, so now he’ll fuck his company. He has him by the balls. He can do anything.”

In the end those two destroyed each other, fucked a lot of workers out of their jobs, got even richer and were left with piles of money and nothing else. Final twist – it was revealed that they were best friends before all this started.

Armie liked it.

“You see, it is the same story, Tim – solitude, vanity of being.”

“This is solitude with plot,” Tim disagreed.

“They talk more, that’s all.”

“Yes, and they plan, they strategize, they experience something all this time. Not the best in the genre, but watchable,” Tim nodded contentedly.

“It is the same story,” Armie mumbled.

“Just better,” Tim smirked.

“Mine got a lot of awards!”

“And mine got audience!”

“Masses are gullible.”

“No, _you_ are stuck-up. And you munched all the sandwiches!” Tim pointed out.

“I didn’t munch!”

“You did. You were so engrossed you didn’t even notice!”

“I… need to check my email,” Armie found a lame excuse and retreated.

“It was better!” Tim cried after him.

And then it was evening, and because they are still at that stage where just lying side by side in bed and reading seems strange, they made love. Tried to read again, ended up fucking again, that kind of thing.

Move on to Sunday.

So, yes, he remembers that he planned to freak out and does. That’s a special skill, honed over the years – from zero to sixty in a blink of an eye - Armie blinks and has a full blown panic attack raging inside him, but raging quietly, because he is a quiet person and his mental breakdowns are too, another special skill not shared by the masses.

He thinks about dinner “with my folks” next Friday, and especially “my dad,” and his heart stops, then starts pounding frantically.

Armie doesn’t have a good history with dads, his or anyone else’s. His last father-in-law ended up thrown down the stairs, and his previous spouse cheered, but he doubts that the current one will be equally appreciative. So he panics.

Unknown things terrify most of all.

This “my dad” is a huge unknown.

This “my dad” may teach _him_ that a flight of stairs sometimes includes flying.

Of course, Tim’s father may like him, but… But what father would like it when his willowy son brings home some 35-year-old hulking dude and says “my mate”?

“Why _this,_ dear?” he hears again.

Tim’s father may not be so crass as to say it, but will he think it? Will he look at Armie and think it? Will he have to reconcile himself with Armie’s existence in Tim’s life? Will he come to the conclusion that plagues Armie sometimes - _you could do so much better, Tim, so much better?_

By the time he reaches this point, he can hardly breathe.

Meanwhile, Tim does something unexpected, at least by Tim’s standards: he takes out an ironing board and brings it to the living room. This is a non-trivial event, because Tim, as Armie found out, treats ironing as art, meaning he thinks it’s pointless in general. So those piles of clothes that Armie once observed in Tim’s apartment are a natural part of his alpha’s habitat and started appearing in his own living room after Tim moved in.

Armie outlawed them at once.

They disappeared.

Armie was cautiously optimistic, until he glanced in Tim’s part of the closet and found all those clothes rolled into a tight ball and simply stuffed inside. Out of sight, out of mind.

In the morning Tim would pull something out by the sleeve, iron it quickly on the bed and think no more about it. If he was late, he’d iron only the front.

Armie rolled his eyes but didn’t comment.

To each his own.

So Tim tentatively unfolding the ironing board in the living room is a sign that times are changing: a version of Enlightenment happened, and Armie apparently slept through it.

Then he notices the clothes that are waiting to be ironed and starts to understand what is happening in front of his disbelieving eyes: the clothes are new, all the stuff that Tim carefully sorted (he is quite adept at sorting) and painstakingly washed (washing isn’t pointless in his book). So what Armie sees is what sociologists saw a long time ago – you improve the environment, the folks will catch up.

It was easy to crumple a cheap shirt from a thrift store and throw it into the closet - harder to do it with quality stuff.

Suddenly very emotional, Armie forgets about freaking out and “my dad” and just watches, deeply touched.

Seeing Tim carefully reading the label, adjusting the temperature setting and then hesitantly passing the iron over the fabric is like witnessing a historic event, scary and thrilling.

My alpha, Armie thinks proudly. My alpha is growing up.

So maybe he should follow the example, stop going insane inside his head and ask some questions for a change, before arriving to a terrifying conclusion. Maybe that’s grown-up, too.

“Tim,” he starts tentatively, “what’s your father like?”

“My father?” Tim looks up and frowns. “Smart, strong,” he shrugs. “Makes fantastic boeuf bourguignon.”

“He is a chef?”

“No,” Tim smiles. “He is a logistics engineer in the Department of Energy: someone finds oil in the middle of Africa, decides to transport it to the US – my father oversees the process, makes sure it’s done safely and on time. That’s why he travels a lot.”

“Your all family is in the government?”

“You’re not, Mom isn’t.”

Armie remembers something else. “Tim…” he pauses. “Your sister, you told me… Do your parents know about?.. Your sister saw my medical file, did she tell them?”

“You mean your operation?” Tim looks at him surprised. “No, my parents don’t know. She would never tell them. She is _my sister,_ ” he tells it as if it explained everything.

“Well, but she knows…”

“Armie, she just saw your name. Ok, she could’ve figured out what was going on, but she would _never_ tell anyone. It’s private. It’s between us. Plus, she could lose her job if it came out that she was snooping through these documents. Please, don’t report her,” he looks at Armie worriedly.

“If I didn’t report her then, why would I do it now?”

Tim looks at him searchingly, then nods.

“But you sure she didn’t… I don’t want your parents…”

“Armie, I repeat, she is my sister,” Tim sighs. “Yeah, she is a weirdo, but that comes with the name. Anyway, she is our weirdo and not a snitch.”

“She is Polly, right?”

“She is Pauline. Pauline Weirdo. She is even proud of it.”

Armie tries to figure it out. “Pauline Viardot you mean?”

“Right? Who names their child after a person like that? Name is destiny,” Tim shakes his head. “But at least they got it right that time.”

“She sings?”

“I told you she is not a snitch.”

“Ok,” Armie chuckles. “And your parents, they are mates?”

“No, they just like each other.”

Ok, out of all the reasons to have kids together that may not be the worst, Armie decides.

“And your father…”

“Look,” Tim interrupts, “you don’t have to worry about my father. Just, if you ever had vegetarian aspirations, don’t mention it.”

“Why?” Armie smiles.

“He doesn’t trust them.”

“And vegans?”

“He doesn’t believe they exist.”

“Ok. And your mom?”

“My mom is an omnivore: she’ll eat anything as long as she doesn’t have to cook it.”

“Anything I shouldn’t mention to her?”

Tim thinks for a second. “Your feminism,” he says finally. “My mom is a sensible woman.”

“Was this sensible woman married with a gun to her head, too?”

Tim looks up, his eyes narrow. “Now, this is what I’m talking about – things like that! That would be a conversation-stopper. None of that, Armie!” He shakes his head, “My father had been sending my mom a basket of roses every day for two months before she said yes.”

Armie smiles, “And they got married?”

“No, she said yes, let’s go have some coffee and talk. Then they got married. They talked first.” Tim thinks for a second, “And ok, ok, I didn’t send you roses, and I’m sorry. But my dad had a car, he sold it…”

“And got a wife,” Armie nods. “The woman who didn’t even want to talk to him for two months.”

“She was bitter,” Tim shrugs.

“About what? She didn’t know him, I presume.”

“He hit her with that car first,” Tim lifts the shirt he was ironing and looks at it critically, then probably sensing Armie’s incredulous stare glances at him. “What?”

“Just thinking how lucky I am,” Armie muses. “You never know, until you start comparing.”

“Oh, get over it – two months of roses and a lifetime of quality cooking for some bruises. That’s a good deal I think.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Tim is irritated. “Mrs. Chalamet, do you consider yourself a victim of patriarchy after 27 years of happy marriage? Let’s see how it goes.”

“Happy according to you,” Armie raises his brow.

“I’ve been there for the last 24 of them. I can judge.”

“She is not Chalamet, she is a Flender.”

“Armie, you want my advice?” Tim looks at him. “Praise the cooking and nod from time to time, otherwise just… talk to Lina. Yes, you talk to Lina because I suspect you two can get along. No family without a Viardot, or two.”

“I think I’ll talk to your mother, leave her some helpful phone numbers,” Armie grumbles.

“No, you leave my mom alone. She’ll only get worried for me. When I moved out, she was beside herself that I wouldn’t know how to handle electric meter. If she hears you talking, she’ll be petrified.” Tim sighs, “You talk to my sister. She is into a lot of bullshit – you’ll have some common ground.”

“Thanks,” Armie nods grimly.

“Armie, honestly, it will be fine,” Tim relents. “As long as you don’t go around telling people how they should live their lives it will be fine.”

“I didn’t…”

“You did,” Tim nods. “Don’t.” He looks at the shirt in front of him and sighs sadly, “How do you fold it?”

Armie comes up, takes the shirt from him and starts folding.

“In 27 years when we’ve figured it all out, then you can talk,” Tim says following his movements with his eyes and trying to remember.

They look at each other, and Armie nods guiltily.

“Don’t judge my folks,” Tim takes the shirt from him and carefully puts it aside. “What do they say? Course of true love never ran smooth, something like that.”

“Well, in this case it ran right over your mom’s body,” Armie chuckles.

“I didn’t say he ran her over,” Tim scoffs, “I said he hit her. She wasn’t really hurt, as far as I know. It was just an accident.”

 “Ok,” Armie smiles and leans across the ironing board to kiss him quickly. “Ok, you’re right.”  
  

<> 

After that Armie calms down a little. It lasts for a whole day. But on Monday he remembers that Friday is just four days away and starts worrying again.

“So I talk to your sister, right?” he asks at dinner.

Tim looks at him exasperated, “You talk to everyone. And don’t look at me terrified every time someone asks you a question, you’ll give the wrong impression of our family dynamics. Ok?”

“Does your father know how old I am?”

“Yes.”

“Does he approve?”

“Of what?”

“My age.”

“You can rewind it back to 21?” Tim raises his brow.

Armie frowns.

“Exactly,” Tim sighs. “My dad knows how time works, too – he won’t blame you for having been born several years before me. Good enough?”

“What does he like?”

“Armie, he likes to cook, smoke Cuban cigars and talk shit about politics. You want to enroll at a culinary school or start smoking now, just to keep up?”

“I know it all sounds ridiculous to you… I just want… I want to understand…”

“You want them to like you,” Tim cuts him off. “They will. They do. You’re my husband, you’re family, they like you.”

“I’ll talk to Polly,” Armie decides.

“Don’t call her Polly, she’ll gouge your eyes out. Stick to Lina, she usually answers to that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?!”

“I could never imagine you’d want to call someone ‘Polly’! That’s grandmother’s name.”

“Grandmothers were young girls, too.”

“Yes, a century ago,” Tim rolls his eyes.

“And your dad? Should I call him, um, Dad?”

“You should call him Marc, that’s his name. And my mom is _my_  mom, so don’t ambush her with _‘Mommy, I’m home!’_ please.”

“I’ll talk to your sister,” Armie sighs.

“Great! Just don’t listen to her,” Tim agrees.

“How do you want me to do it?”

“Hum mentally, that’s how I usually do it. She talks and you hum some song inside your head. You’ve never had a chick for a sibling, you don’t know what it’s like. Hum.”

“Right. And if she asks me something, I should start singing or what?”

“She won’t ask you anything,” Tim shakes his head. “She’ll be telling you all the embarrassing things she knows about me. We lived together for 20 years, she has some material,” Tim looks up. “Hum.”

“No, I think I’ll pay attention,” Armie smirks. “Might need it for some future use.”

“Ok, but don’t believe it. It’s all lies anyway.”

“Like what, for example?”

“For example, that I cried over musicals until I was 12 – lie. That I gnawed on our coffee table when my fangs started growing – lie, too. That I used to curl my hair – lie, I never did, I tried to straighten it and it didn’t work. That I locked myself out of the apartment naked – lie, bald-faced, I was in a towel. That I wore her bra…” Tim pauses. “Now, that’s true, though I don’t think she’ll mention it at the dinner table. That I used her tampons to clean my ears – lie, I only told her I did. And there is also that story that I lost my virginity to one of her girlfriends – straight up bullshit, we never even kissed, but I went along with it, because at 14 it was a good rep. Shit like that,” Tim shrugs.

“Ok,” Armie nods. “Let’s go back to the bra.”

“She won’t say it in front of Mom,” Tim replies dismissively.

“You like female underwear?”

“No, I don’t like female underwear,” Tim glares at him. “And I hate padded wired pink push-ups most of all, because that’s what she made me wear. On a dare, for three days. End of story. She thought I wouldn’t do it. She didn’t know me.”

“I didn’t know you either,” Armie mumbles.

“It’s not a big deal,” Tim shrugs. “Luckily we didn’t have gym on those three days, so no one saw.”

“You wore it _in school?”_

“No, Armie, I worked for IRS and wore a pink push-up,” Tim looks at him. “Of course it was in school, and she is still salty that I won and cleaned up her Christmas money for that year. Easiest 300 bucks I made in three days. But now I’m firmly “Free the Nipple”, 100%. Girls deserve it. The only thing is that then your mom will, too, you know? That gives you pause.”

“It does,” Armie shudders.

“Yes, but for moms and grandmas I’m probably a feminist, too, a bit.”

“Not a bit – you’re cutting edge, I’m afraid,” Armie chuckles. “Nothing like a chick for a sibling.”

“Oh yeah,” Tim nods. “But there are useful things you pick up, too. Like seeing through the make-up. Saved me from several unfortunate hook-ups,” he says sagely.

“And you had a lot?” Armie tries not to smile.

“Well, not a lot,” Tim frowns. “And I didn’t have them because I could see clearly!”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

 

<> 

On Tuesday the panic bug gets to Tim, too.

“Friday, wear this dark jeans you have,” he tells Armie.

“Why?”

“For my sister.”

“Your sister?”

Tim gets out his phone and shows him the picture of some tanned dude sprawled on a beach towel.

“That’s her best result,” he points. “We need to show her.”

“I can’t compete with that,” Armie looks at the photo.

“You’ve already won. He is 6’3”.”

“With a six-pack.”

“And a small dick.”

Armie raises his brow.

“She needed to vent after they broke up,” Tim shrugs.

“Tim, I’m not a show horse.”

“We all are in a way,” Tim says philosophically, “so give me some cleavage.”

“ _What_ cleavage?”

“No tie, two buttons loose, you can do it.”

“It’s a _family_ dinner,” Armie reminds him.

“And it’s a _family_ matter – I want her to choke from envy. You’re my trophy husband, no need to hide it.”

“Your trophy husband?”

“Yes, and my father will probably ask you how much you earn. Tell him the truth,” Tim instructs him.

“This is private,” Armie disagrees.

“Bedroom is private, income is a family matter. Tell him the truth. It will look like I married up.”

“You did marry up.”

“Well, tell him that, he’ll like it. And tell him about museums – he hates the stuff, but he’ll be glad to hear it. Mom always wanted me to take piano lessons.”

“What does it have to do with piano?”

“Armie, they are parents – parents always want their child to play the piano, or learn chess, or start figure-skating, some shit like that. Just to feel better about themselves, you understand? My mom wanted piano because she wanted to learn herself and never did, and my dad wanted French because he began forgetting it. I didn’t want any of that and got away relatively unscathed,” Tim winks.

“But you can speak French, right?”

“I can…” Tim frowns, “well, ‘speak’ is an exaggeration. I understand if I am called a dickhead and I can figure out the recipe in a book, but, you know, ‘speak’… no, ‘speak’ is an exaggeration.”    

“And you want me to tell them that you’re very cultured now?”

“Yes,” Tim beams, “tell them that.”

“Because you crossed a museum door once?”

“Because I want them to feel proud of me.”

“And for your sister to choke,” Armie smiles.

“Two birds – one stone,” Tim nods. “Put on those jeans and tell them about museums – I’ll be very grateful.”

“You’ll be very grateful?”

“I’ll be _very_ grateful – you’ll see.”

 

<> 

Wednesday. Armie spent half his day trying to convince another client that an ultramodern kitchen shouldn’t lead to a rustic dining room. They talked on the phone and Armie heard that he is a “moron”, though he suspects that the guy didn’t intend him to.

“Why do you bother?” Nick asked him not for the first time.

“He asked for my opinion,” Armie shrugged.

“Doesn’t mean he wanted to hear it,” Nick rolled his eyes. “Most people don’t.”

“Why do they hire us then?”

“Some – to teach us how to do our job. Come on, it’s like you’re first time around the block.”

Well, ok. True that. And it has to be said that majority of the people actually listen to those they pay for their expertise. But from time to time you get these guys – another case of ‘got rich over the weekend, need the whole world to know it.’ Wall Street is the prime supplier of this merchandise.

Anyway, by the end of the day Armie is fucking tired – work is doubly exhausting when you know it’s a waste of time. He is already passing out, when from the other side of the bed comes:

“Tell him that I make great Osso Buco Milanese.”

“What?” Armie mumbles. “Tell whom?”

“My father. Tell him, don’t forget.”

“Oh, alright,” he yawns. “I like mayonnaise…”

Sigh. “Milanese. Osso buco.”

“Ok, ok. Write it down tomorrow. I’ll tell him.”

“I made it for you last week.”

“Ok,” Armie closes his eyes and gets comfortable.

“You don’t remember.”

“But I ate it, right?” he sighs.

“You ate it,” Tim says gravely. “But you don’t remember.”

It takes an effort to open his eyes, one more to turn his head and look at Tim who, as soon as he gets his attention, starts busily rustling and turns over.

“Tim…”

“Good night.”

_You ungrateful monster_ , Armie translates.

Armie sighs, thinks leaving it alone, then glances at Tim’s curly nape and decides that no, it can’t be left until tomorrow. So he sighs again and begins a slow migration – he can’t say he inhabits that part of the bed, just visits on occasion, usually leaving as soon as he starts to feel the heat. To reach Tim you need to get from under your blanket, find an opening in his, drag yourself under it, try not to get lost while looking for him there, in all this puffiness… In short, it’s an effort, and when you’re tired a heroic one.

But finally he arrives.

“What do you want?” Tim grumbles.

“I remember,” Armie whispers into his hair. “It was delicious.”

“You don’t. Get out of here.”

Armie circles his waist with his arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Missed you,” Armie kisses his neck.

“No, you didn’t,” Tim replies without turning around. “You got cold. I knew it – summer will come and you’ll be here. I knew it.”

“I’m not here for the blanket.”

“Blanket and guilt.”

“No, just came to visit.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Didn’t bother you before,” Armie snuggles closer.

“Go back. Not interested.”

Armie kisses, kisses, kisses him, then grabs what he can and starts pulling his husband to his side.

“No!” Tim cries and clutches the edge of the bed. “No! Stop! You stop!”

“Turn over.”

“No.”

“Please,” Armie smiles.

“No.”

He starts pulling again. “I remember. It was beef.”

“Veal.”

“I remember.”

“You don’t!”

“Turn over.”

“No.”

“Kiss me and I’ll go back,” Armie negotiates.

Tim thinks about it briefly. “No.”

“Just once.”

“No.”

“There was rice, too. Yellow.”

“Saffron,” Tim agrees.

“Yes.”

“Unhand me.”

“No,” Armie buries his nose in his hair. “Turn over then I’ll tell your father how well you take care of me.”

Tim sniffs.

“Such a good cook, such a good partner, such a good alpha… Damn, it’s hot here. Turn over.”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s stifling.”

“Go back then.”

Armie sighs. “I’ll tell him about that pasta with lemon that you made. It was very good pasta.”

“What pasta?”

“Well, with lemon and… and things. Like peas, but not.”

“Like capers,” Tim says drily.

“Yes, them,” Armie kisses his neck, his shoulder. “And your carrot cake – you make it better than my mom. And your waffles – perfect waffles, best waffles in my life. Highlight of my morning. Do you want me to tell him that?”

“Really?” Tim finally deigns to glance at him.

“Really,” Armie smiles. “I love your rice balls, and your waffles, and your buns. Everything, all your goods. I miss them all day.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, mhm, miss them. So creamy, and spicy, and hot… Come to my side.”

“So you remember?”

“I remember,” Armie’s hand starts wandering. “Oslobrucko. Beef, saffron… Delicious.”

Tim sighs. “You’re an idiot.”

“Turn over.”

Surprisingly Tim does.

“Tell him about pasta then, but don’t make stuff up – you’ll get me in trouble with your kitchen illiteracy,” he instructs sternly.

“I’ll tell him,” Armie promises and leans to kiss him.

“Thank you,” Tim pecks the tip of his nose. “Good night.” And he turns away before Armie knows what happened.

“Um…”

“Crawl back now,” he hears. “It’s Wednesday.”

 

<> 

On Thursday, as soon as he starts worrying again, Armie shaves his chest and it calms his nerves a bit.

 

<> 

Friday. At last.

He wakes up feeling Tim lightly biting his ear.

“Morning,” his alpha growls quietly and the next moment Armie’s pants are off.

“Are we…”

“Shhh, just let me,” and kisses, kisses, kisses. “Just let me in,” Tim whispers hotly, his hand snaking from behind to start stroking Armie slowly. “Let me in.”

They rarely have time for these moments during the work week, and it’s usually Armie who starts it, to give Tim some additional reason to wake up. They are different those mornings, this type of loving – slower, gentler, quieter. The intensity and heat are there, but the mood is all sweetness, no edge. They move silently, in sync - Tim nuzzles his neck from behind, one hand holding his shoulder, another lifting his knee – open mouths breathing soundlessly.

Tim enters him and waits for a brief second - for a protest or a sign of pain - gives him time to adjust and accept, and relaxes when Armie moves his head back and opens his neck to him.

It’s only minutes – soon enough they’ll get up and the proper day will start, and there will be breakfast and arguing over who should use the shower first, and a cup of coffee over morning news, and running around looking for socks (Tim), and ten minutes spent gazing at two identical ties (Armie), and a splash of rap music unexpectedly from the street, and a million dogs barking simultaneously under their windows, and some car alarm, and some irritated _fuck you, motherfucker_ as a cheerful New York good morning – but for now it’s Tim’s hot palms, his hot lips, his hot cock, burning and soothing, burning and soothing. Pleasure, liquid and thick, and almost scalding, and almost leaving marks.

He thinks he is biting his lip and then realizes that it’s Tim – everywhere, between his legs, over his shoulder, along his back, inside his flesh, everywhere.

His alpha spends himself inside his body, and they breathe.

And it’s all so quiet.

And it’s all so deep.

 

<> 

“We look good,” Tim says and looks again in the mirror at them both.

Armie put on his dark jeans adding to it a navy blazer with a simple white polo underneath. Tim, after going several times through his treasure trove, first decided on a black leather jacket. Armie has no idea why it was given to him – in his humble opinion, wearing this in certain parts of the city will only provoke a question about your employer – is it US government or Tony Chainsaw? But Tim took to the thing judging by the fact that it’s not the first time Armie catches him admiring it. Fortunately this time he managed to stir him towards a black v-necked jumper with elbow patches.

“We look fine,” he nods.

“Yes, fine,” Tim bites his lip. “Did you call the cab?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good,” Tim nods. “We’ll buy flowers?”

“I think so.”

“My mom doesn’t like lilies.”

“We’ll buy something else.”

“And chocolates?”

“Ok.”

“We’ll be fine,” Tim says nervously.

“I’ll talk to your sister, I promise.”

“No, don’t talk to my sister! Ignore my sister!”

“But…” Armie frowns.

“My sister is into hot dudes and dating,” Tim starts pacing, “it won’t interest you at all.”

“Why do you think so?”

“You’re married.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m dead,” Armie says reasonably.

“Talk to my father,” Tim stops and looks at him. “He respects you.”

“He does?”

“He does,” Tim nods.

“Whatever for?”

“You have backbone.”

That’s news to Armie. “I do?”

“You do. It took my grandpa two weeks and my dad two months to seal the deal – you held off for three months almost. That’s character. My dad respects that.”

Armie realizes that he is no more prepared than he was last week, but then the cab arrives and it’s too late by now.

“Don’t talk to my sister,” Tim reminds him when they get out at his parents’ building.

 

<> 

“Hydrants are for old ladies,” Tim glances at the bouquet in Armie’s hands. “My mom isn’t old.”

“Hydrangeas,” Armie sighs. “And they are not. I like them.”

“Mums are better. Suitable for a mom.”

“They are funeral flowers, actually,” Armie glances at him.

“Just don’t give it to my sister,” Tim huffs.

“Oh, hell, your sister! Should we have bought something for her, too?”

“Then we should have bought three,” Tim frowns, “otherwise it’s sexist.”

“No, that’s dumb.”

“My dad loves gladioli…”

“Well, today he’ll go without,” Armie rolls his eyes. “Did you ring?”

“Yes,” Tim replies and brushes off nonexistent dust from his shoulders for the tenth time. “I’m wearing your boxers by the way,” he says casually. “Checkered.”

Armie opens his mouth.

Nicole opens the door.

“Hi, Mom,” Tim says cheerfully and gathers her in his arms.

I will kill him, Armie promises to himself. Not now, but soon.

“Do you like them?” Tim turns around and points to the flowers. “Armie chose them.”

Armie gets the impression that Nicole is used to this lack of ceremony and casual manhandling, because she just smiles and nods.

“Thank you, Armie. They are lovely.”

“You look beautiful, Nicole,” he replies politely. “As always.”

“Yes, you do,” Tim nods. “As always.”

“Thank you,” she chuckles. “Both of you. Come in.”

Armie can’t help remembering last time he was here – February, cold wind, hot tea, some guy in a parka barging in unexpectedly. He glances at Nicole and it looks like she is thinking about that too. Her eyes seem far away and thoughtful. He notices her looking at her son again, giving him that special once-over that mothers perfect over time: mix of worry and tenderness, inevitable regret that he grew up so soon.

“Where is Lina?” Tim asks stretching his neck and trying to look over her.

“Doing her nails I think,” Nicole smiles.

“Nails?” Tim looks at her incredulously. “Hey, weirdo, I’m hoooome!” he shouts and marches inside.

Armie glances at the table in the entryway where he left his hat last time and it got squashed. Raising his eyes he catches Nicole looking at it, too.

Yes, he thinks, she remembers. How can she not?

“I’m so happy you came,” she looks at him and smiles.

Then or now? he wants to ask but doesn’t have a chance because Tim’s father appears from the kitchen, and Armie realizes that no amount of preparation would have been enough to get him ready for what he is seeing.

He is so surprised he has to stop himself from taking a step back and blinking.

Tim’s father is huge.

Which is… normal.

Marc Chalamet is an alpha. You can see dozens like him in the street every day. He is not even particularly big one, just stocky, wide-boned, heavier and more corpulent than Armie, but only an inch or two taller than him.

And Armie wasn’t prepared for this.

He got so used to Tim, he realizes, that he stopped seeing him in context. Tim became just Tim. He couldn’t help measuring him in relation to himself from time to time, but he stopped considering others. In his mind, when Tim talked about his father, Armie saw someone slim and graceful, maybe the jaw not so sharp, maybe the movements not so fussy, but essentially another Tim, only twenty or so years older. And Tim’s father is anything but.

“Welcome home!” Marc smiles broadly, and his voice is another shock, raucous and clear, far cry from Tim’s silvery singsong.  

Armie hopes that all this isn’t written on his face. He should have told me, he thinks frantically and then understands why Tim didn’t: what could he say – be careful, my father is normal?..

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Armie says finally, shaking his hand. “Tim is always talking about you.”

“Where is your son?” Marc looks at Nicole.

“Went looking for your daughter,” she returns.

“Timothée!” he bellows. “Where is that devil? Timothée!”

Tim comes back running. “What?” he looks at his father wide-eyed.

“We’ll talk about it later,” his father says gravely. “Please, excuse us, I have to finish some things in the kitchen,” Marc looks at Armie and waves at his apron. “You’ll help me,” he adds to Tim.

“Yes, of course,” Tim nods.

Can you rewind it back? Armie remembers their recent conversation. Yes, sometimes you can.

He looks at Tim and his father going back to the kitchen side by side – his alpha seems irrevocably fourteen, the way he saw him for the first time right here four months ago.

 

<> 

After the shock of Marc Chalamet, meeting Tim’s sister is almost uneventful. Yes, she is clad all in black and there are velvet kitty ears on her head, but what can you do? Healthcare Department has to unwind from time to time, and where better than at home?

Armie was left with the ladies and wonders if he should be offended, but then decides that it’s more “people who can’t cook” that were left behind, while the guys are finishing up in the kitchen, than actual, you know, “ladies”.

“Tell us everything! But everything, with details, we were dying here for a month!” Pauline demands as soon as they get around the coffee table in the living room and the aperitif is offered.

“Everything what?” Armie smiles.

“How did it happen?”

“Well, it happened right here actually,” he looks around again, remembering.

“He seduced you right here?” she frowns.

“Oh, no, no…” he almost chokes on his Chablis. “I meant we _met_ right here.”

“They did,” Nicole nods and smiles.

“And you were smitten, right here!” Pauline exclaims. “Coup de foudre!”

“Hardly,” Armie chuckles, and then remembers that Nicole is here too. “At least it hit only one of us at the time,” he adds.

“But you were like, _fuck, that’s hot_. Right?”

“I…” Armie decides he should stop drinking or he’ll spit at the rate they are going.

“Did he make his move?” Pauline doesn’t wait for his answer. “What’s his move?”

“Honey, probably we shouldn’t…” Nicole tries.

“You don’t want to know?” Lina looks at her surprised. “What’s his move?” she turns back to Armie.

“I honestly don’t know,” he smiles. “He gave me a rabbit hat at some point.”

“Now, that’s _just_ like your son,” she tells Nicole.

“It’s cute,” Tim’s mother defends him.

“Then why are you frowning?”

“It was fine,” Armie inserts. “I appreciated the gesture.”

“You’d appreciate it more, if it was a Rolls-Royce,” Lina raises a brow.

“He sent flowers, too,” Armie raises his.

“Every day?”

“No,” he admits, “one time.”

“So that’s why you kept him hanging for months? Because he is a cheap fucker?”

“Oh, forgive us, Armie,” Nicole looks at him pleadingly.

“Ok, what’s the euphemism for ‘cheap fucker’?” Pauline asks her.

“He is not,” Armie insists. “He respected my wishes - I told him I didn’t want gifts. He respected that.”

“You could get more out of him,” Pauline tells him authoritatively. “I saw him then. You could get more, trust me. But then, when you said you didn’t want gifts, he knew you were hooked, so…” she shrugs. “No, you could get more. You should have bluffed a bit longer. Not a poker player, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” Armie chuckles.

“Well, it’s too late now. You can shake him down for an anniversary or something, but otherwise…”

“I don’t care about money.”

“It’s not about money, it’s about history, family lore,” she sounds like she can’t believe she has to explain it. “You should have _history_ – and you have a rabbit hat.”

“That’s enough for me. And I have your brother, too,” Armie points out.

“Yes, so you take care of him,” she is suddenly serious. “He is a good guy. Timba is loyal. Cheap, but loyal and he loves you very much. How did he propose?”

“Um, we just… Well, we talked for a bit, weighed all pros and cons, and then we… decided… yes, we decided that it was the right step,” Armie says feeling quite pleased with his polished version of events.

The women look at each other, then at him.

“Well, it’s… each couple has it differently,” Nicole says doubtfully.

“ _You_ had it with an orchestra and fire eaters,” Pauline reminds her.

“Yes, we woke the whole neighborhood,” she smiles. “70 players. Trombones were deafening,” she tells Armie. 

“You see?” Pauline looks at him.  

“Honey, times were different,” Nicole sighs.

“He didn’t have time for an orchestra,” Armie tries not to sound irritated. “He had to ad lib!”

“Did he come up with something good?”

“He was convincing.”

“Did he threaten to kill himself at least? If you said no?” Pauline asks hopefully.

“No.”

“But you _said_ no, I hope?” she looks at him exasperated.

“Well, at first…”

“Why would he say no?” Nicole frowns.

“You say yes from the get-go – you’re easy. Times are different, Mom,” Pauline explains patiently. “And you could sell it – you don’t look easy,” she looks at Armie thoughtfully.

“Who does?” he smiles.

“I do,” Pauline shrugs, “because I am. I am very easy, very seduceable. But I love assholes, so saying yes won’t get you much - I say yes all the time and what I get is empty credit cards and mile-wide horns.”

“But you love assholes.”

“Oh, I do,” she sighs. “Passionately. I can trust them, you know: princes always disappoint – these guys never.”  

“Not much of a poker player, are you?

Pauline looks at him, her eyes laughing, and Armie knows that he isn’t in on the joke.

“Exactly,” she nods to herself. “That’s how it works. You would say so, you’d think she is an easy mark, a dupe, and meanwhile I know what I’m getting into and I love the game. I know how much I’ll lose and this way I don’t lose anything. I have fun, I get entertained and in the end I have my heart broken a bit, and that makes me feel, makes me sharper, makes me tick.

“I love being in love,” she continues fiercely, “I _need_ being in love, or it’s all just a waste of time - just work and shopping trips for stuff you won’t care about in six months. I love my boys, they are drifters, swindlers, skanks and cheats, but they give me something real: wonder, sadness, rage - you can’t buy those and you need them most of all.

“We always get what we want, whether we want to or not,” she winks. “You wanted Timba, you have him - hold fast and enjoy the ride. Cheers!” she raises her glass to him.

“Why do you call him ‘Timba’?” Armie asks distractedly, still thinking about her words.

“Because he hates it,” Pauline shrugs. “You should have heard him when he first started growling – it was a riot.” She nods at the somewhat damaged corner of the table. “That’s him, too.”

“That wasn’t necessary, was it, Lina?” Nicole looks at her sternly.

Before Pauline has time to reply they hear Tim’s steps, and Armie turns just as his husband appears at the door.

“We’re all done,” Tim looks at them all in turn and, Armie suspects, tries to figure out what went on in his absence.

“Get a haircut, bro,” Lina smirks.

“Stupid ears,” Tim throws back.

“Haters will hate,” she flips him off.

“What did she tell you?” Tim whispers to him.

“Nothing I didn’t know already,” Armie smiles.

“Mom added your names,” Pauline tells them and points at one of the framed pictures hanging in the hallway.

To his surprise Armie notices that it is a detailed genealogical tree - Chalamets and branches, hella lot of them by the look of it. And at the bottom, written in black ink there are their names with an infinity sign in between, which he surmises signifies marriage and - if you read between the lines - without parole.

“Why are you Hammer?” Pauline looks at the diagram, too.

“Why are you stupid?” Tim hisses from his other side.

“You don’t like our name?” Pauline doesn’t let go.

“Changing your maiden name is outdated,” Tim rolls his eyes, “read a bit.”

“I don’t have a maiden name,” Armie remarks drily.

“Well, chicks in our family don’t change them,” Pauline nods ignoring him, “makes sense.”

“I’m not a ch…”

“He is a suffragette,” Tim says proudly.

“You can’t vote?” Pauline stares at him.

“Let’s just… just go… just…” Armie sighs and stirs them both to the dining room.

Armie finds himself seated beside Pauline and to the right of the host with Nicole at the other end and Tim, he presumes, opposite him. Three floating white candles surrounded by a simple green wreath serve as a centerpiece, wine glasses reflect their light and it makes them sparkle. 

“Turbot en papillote,” Marc puts a small bowl in front of him. “I hope you’ll like it. Timothée told me you appreciate fish.”

Armie looks at the dish – fish filet with a carefully arranged garnish around it, all of it tastefully wrapped in a parchment paper.

“That’s, like, very cool,” Pauline helps. “Very cool.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” Armie clears his throat. “You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” Marc waves him off. “It was my pleasure.”

Next several minutes are spent quietly eating, but Armie knows that the main course is still ahead, and he is not mistaken – a moment later Tim’s father turns to him and asks:

“So, you are a decorator?”

“Designer,” Armie corrects him reluctantly.

He acutely dislikes it when people confuse these things – you decorate a Christmas tree, for fuck’s sake, living space you create. It’s important. An ugly tree might spoil your mood for a couple of days, but unlivable apartments drive people to suicide. It has to be taken seriously.

“Matching drapes to carpets, that sort of stuff?” Marc nods.

“Matching people to drapes and carpets,” Armie glances at him.

“How is that?”

“Well, it’s… it’s about interpreting a space and trying to find a way for it to reflect its owner,” he tries to explain.

“Good racket?” Papá smiles but Armie suspects it’s no laughing matter to him.

“Pays the bills,” he nods and catches his eyes. After a barely noticeable pause Marc nods, too.

“We aren’t an artistic family,” he shrugs as if trying to explain. “Timothée must have told you that.”

Armie smiles. “But you clearly have taste - your home is lovely.”

“Ah, that’s all Puffy,” M. Chalamet nods towards his wife, and Armie can’t help looking at her. _Puffy?_

“I changed the curtains,” she winks, and Armie chuckles.

“Right, we changed the curtains,” Marc agrees, though Armie would bet his toes he had no idea they did. “Also, my dad found a pair of moose antlers this winter, promised to send it to us. We’ll put them right there,” he points to the living room. “What do you think?”

Armie looks at the soft creamy living room, all pink and blue pastel and rounded corners, then at M. Chalamet.

“Antlers will fit,” he says diplomatically. “Definitely,” he adds and catches Nicole’s amused glance.

“I think so, too,” Marc nods contently. “Sprinkle them with some shit for Christmas – will look nice. Yes, yes,” he glances again towards the living room. “We have a vacation house in Nantucket. Timothée told you that?”

“No,” Armie frowns.

“Yes, we do. 3 bedrooms, fireplace, deck, patio… No Wi-Fi though,” he says apologetically. “It’s sort of a common property, we all use it from time to time. Bought it with my brother years ago.”

Armie nods, trying to figure out where it’s all going.

“The attic though… ah, we stuffed it full of crap, but it’s a good place. Yes, good place. If someone looked into it, could be made into a dream…” he says and looks at Armie.

“Marc, please,” Nicole shakes her head.

“What?” Papá is astonished, almost genuinely. “The boy is offering!” he looks at Armie again.

Smooth, Armie thinks. Real smooth, that.

“It’s no problem,” he glances at Nicole. “An attic in Nantucket… sounds grand,” he meets Tim’s laughing eyes across the table.

“How is turbot?” Marc asks.

“Exquisite,” Armie admits.

“Timothée can make it, too,” his father-in-law tells him. “And his salt-baked salmon is nice. Sloppy with flounder, though,” he sighs regretfully and Tim shrugs. “But you can trust him with a squid, I hope.”

The last one judging by the slight emphasis is supposed to mean something to Armie, but he has no idea what.

“Though you don’t look Hispanic, Armando,” Papá looks at him questioningly. “That’s curious.”

Armie almost drops his fork. “I… don’t.”

“Or what, mama watched a lot of telenovelas?” Marc laughs heartily. “You remember the Vietinghoffs, Puffy?” he asks his wife and then explains, “Germans from top to bottom, five generations of Germans - moved here, set up Telemundo and now have a son Luis Pedro.” He laughs again, “Luis Pedro von Vietinghoff!”

You’re the one to talk, Armie thinks, after saddling your Brooklynite progeny with Timothée.

“He works for _Vogue_ , so he goes by Louis now,” Pauline tells him. “He is a photographer. Married, husband is a knockout,” and she offers a bread basket to him.

“No, thank you,” Armie declines.

“Dad made it,” Pauline says sweetly.

Armie takes the bread.

Then he has to take the butter, because Pauline does it. She tears the bread into several pieces and adds some butter to each, so Armie carefully follows. He glances at Tim and Tim nods.

“Now, we French, we can stew,” Papá informs him. “Braze and stew, that we can. I can stew you a horseshoe - you’ll eat it, won’t know there was no horse there. Pot-au-feu, garbure, consommé, ratatouille. Ah yes, we can stew…” he says contentedly. “But, fuck me, you guys… you can roast!” he looks admiringly at Armie.

Armie pauses with a piece of bread in his hand. He guesses it’s too late to deny his sudden heritage, so he just nods.

“Yes, we can.”

“Damn, you can! Tortillas, chorizos, carnitas, frijoles refritos. Gods, but you know how to do it! Forgive me, I don’t know much, but don’t worry - my dad is a true admirer, so Timothée picked up some things from him.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Armie agrees. “I was starting to have my doubts.”

“But you should have said something, darling,” comes from across the table, all sugary sweet and poisonous. “I’ll add salsa diabla to every dish now,” Tim promises.

“Is it that fiery thing?” Marc asks him.

Tim nods.

“I almost had a heart attack,” he shudders and looks at Armie again. “You’re tough folks.”

“We’re dynamite,” Armie concurs.

“Speaking of dynamite,” Pauline takes out her phone, finds something and shows him the photo.

“Hot,” Armie nods looking at another tanned dude on another beach towel.

“Smoldering,” her eyes sparkle, “and a surfer.”

“What’s he doing in New York then?”

“I’m told it’s very complicated – ah, very complicated – which usually translates as _wife and no job in Cali_.” She looks at the picture again, “But, I mean, would you care?”

“No, I probably wouldn’t,” Armie looks too.

“Don’t get pregnant,” M. Chalamet says gruffly.

“Oh no,” Lina waves him off, “has nothing to do with that.”

That seems to be enough for the head of the household.

“You heard about the Treasury guy?” Marc asks Tim.

“Yeah, we were pretty shaken,” Tim nods. “Know what happened?”

“Our mayor happened, that’s what happened,” his father shakes his head.

“You mean he pulled the strings?”

“Of course,” Marc nods. “The fucker is running next time, doesn’t want anyone to stand in the way.”

“Even his brother?”

“The brother who is heavily invested in oil and gas – no,” he pauses and sighs heavily. “They want to go nuclear in New York.”

“Really?” Tim’s brows shoot up.

“That’s what I hear,” Marc sighs again. “Three plants in next 15 years. Naturally he can’t run on that the first time, he’ll save it for the second term - you need some time to prepare people for a deal that, if it goes wrong, can fry half the East Coast,” he clicks his tongue. “But yes, they are going for it. Everything is in place. You watch, soon he’ll start talking about coal miners who are thirsty for jobs, and voila – we have jobs for them: from the hole and straight into hell.” 

“You think he’ll win?” Tim sounds doubtful.

“He’ll win,” Marc says without hesitation. “The machine is working full force, even now. He has minorities, unions, some church folks, Silicon guys.”

“Big Pharma,” Pauline chimes in.

“Right,” Marc nods, “these assholes are in for the party, too.”

“So he’ll win and fuck the unions?” Tim smiles without humor.

“Everyone fucks the unions,” his father shrugs.

“But you have to schmooze them first,” Tim finishes.

“Indeed. Yes, second term it will be nuclear and all that crap about energy independence, and first – business as usual.”

“War?” Tim looks at him.

“War,” Marc nods. “We love us some pacifism from time to time.”

“But not for long and not for real,” Tim smirks.

“No, not for real,” Marc sighs and puts away his fork. “Alright. Timothée,” he looks at his son and Tim understands the look – he promptly gets up and starts pouring wine to everybody.

Papá raises his glass.

“Well, family,” he clears his throat, “to the good budget.”

Armie looks at Nicole and she winks at him and raises her glass.

“To the good budget!” Tim and his sister repeat in unison.

“And let them cut someone else,” Pauline adds merrily.

“Amen,” Marc nods and they all drink.

 

<> 

So many things Armie sees at that table.

He suddenly sees Tim, as if for the first time, Tim at 12, 14, 17 – Tim looking at himself in the mirror and fearing, suspecting and finally knowing that he’ll never be like his father: something that is given to so many is so callously and inexplicably denied to him.

And his father… They never tell you these things when you start out, they saddle you with a load of horseshit like _love is love is love_ , as if it’s self-explanatory, as if it’s obvious. And love is never just love you learn later, but rather a fugu fish: in expert hands - a lifetime experience, but cooked incorrectly can wipe out half the neighborhood.

They say it’s pure, but nothing is outside of a laboratory, and so love is too often a frightening combination of vanity, envy, pity and disappointment. Stumbling once or twice in the beginning, burning your tongue on lovers, you think at least with your children it will be easy, and you’re wrong again: add too much sugar – and you’ll get a toothless weakling, dump too much ice – and a monster is scowling back at you.

So maybe that’s what life is all about – just one continuous attempt to figure out how to love someone else, _anyone else_ besides yourself. You learn, you try to be patient but still make countless mistakes, because love is a gift, and surprisingly few people know how to choose something for another person.

Armie saw it many times in his work – a client who tells you he wants this apartment to be ideal for his spouse, partner, brother, mother, etc.; he talks a good game, he is honest, well-meaning, generous, but the further you go the more obvious it becomes that all this time he’s been building a place for himself. He’ll give it to his mother, or wife, or whomever, and he will want them to live there, to be comfortable – and grateful, of course! - but the floors are bare because _he_ hates rugs and the marble in the bathroom is the color _he_ prefers.

Love works in the same way – too often you forget what the person wants to receive, you only think about what you’re giving and you become incensed when it’s refused. You feel underappreciated, self-sacrificing and noble, this great tragic figure doomed to be alone because the world is just too callous for your tender nature. But are you? Look closely, what is it that enrages you the most? The rejection? The humiliation? Or is it wounded pride? After all, you had your love to give and…

Ah, right, _your_ love.

You’ve spent so much time nursing it, and it never occurred to you that the real trick, the most difficult art to master is to love regardless of yourself, to love a person the way they want you to. Maybe they even told you, maybe you didn’t listen, and maybe, just maybe you heard and dismissed it.

Love, they say, is blind, but how often it is deaf, too.

How often, indeed.

Did monsieur Chalamet see it from the start? Did he understand that Tim would never accept open gentleness from him? From Nicole - probably, but never from him. Because from him it would be babying, it would be interpreted as pity, and you don’t pity your equals.

Was it that that he understood?

That, as all vampires, love has to be invited first.

It’s not enough to turn up at the door with your gift – someone has to open it for you, someone has to let you in.

He saw his son and he _saw_ his son – and he got it: you mustn’t help the chick break out of the egg shell, you can only stand by and watch helplessly, you can only hope and bleed internally, waiting for him to come out and spread his wings, or not.

And so, those cooking lessons, those admonishments about “caring for your omega,” this careful strictness… that shop talk at the table… Tim’s career in civil service… That uncle – damn! – that uncle, that cop who came to talk to Tim about being a policeman, he couldn’t have come on his own, he was invited, he was asked to do it… He was asked to do it because your alpha son would never expect anything less from you - he could forgive you this blow, but would never forgive you for pampering him.

Because…

You never pamper your equals…

Because…

The thing Tim wanted most was to be like his father…

Because…

The only right way to love Tim was to love him as an alpha that he was…

Gods, the balls it took to hurt your child like this – with no guarantee that something that shattered his smile would give him wings.

But ultimately it did, Armie thinks, looking at Tim who listens to something his father is saying – ultimately the wings grew and strengthened, opening widely and taking your breath away, making you forget that the brightest plumages cover the darkest bruises, always.

And that is something that his own mother, Armie realizes, couldn’t do – she couldn’t love him accepting his flaws, she had to find her way around them and ended up handling him like a grenade in her hands – too scared to throw it away and too taken aback to hold it to her chest. She gave him that preferential treatment, that careful pity that always kept him at arm’s length. No matter how much she probably tried, she simply felt too guilty for _trying_ to love him.

She could never decide who he was – a half-baked alpha? A freaky omega? A strange boy? An ugly girl? And how do you love something that you suspect is ugly?

Oh, with magnanimous condescension, of course. You love it but don’t forget to remind everyone how good you are for doing so, how much it takes to bear a burden like that. You love it with that special kind of love that makes you feel good - but you and only you - and costs a fortune to an unlucky receiver.

And in the rare moments when the masks are off, when you want to scream so loudly as to pulverize the sunshine, you take a bottle and turn your loneliness into bourbon – drop-drop, chin-chin, shot-shot, you forget-forget-forget that no matter how loud the scream no one will really come, ever.

She loved him in her own way, she just couldn’t like him. She couldn’t master that, poor woman.

Surprisingly, in that moment, thinking about all this, Armie feels closer to his mother than he did for a long time – he looks at Marc again and, if not forgives, then understands her a little better: no one teaches you to love, no one has the recipe, and even the most surefire of them all – love for your own children – can go so irrevocably wrong, so quickly.

He thought it was like falling asleep – up and you’re dreaming, never noticed when it happened, but right now at this table Armie looks around and feels that he is falling in love – with that thunderous M. Chalamet, with ever gracious Nicole, with that ridiculous Pauline and her damn kitty ears, and with his alpha, all anew.

His family.

They are his family.

These ordinary people who did an extraordinary thing because they figured out how to love each other.

“Excuse me.” He leans to Pauline and asks quietly, “where is… um…”

“Oh, down that hallway, white door with the pink bat on it,” she replies casually and returns to her furious texting.

Armie whispers his excuses again and quietly leaves the table.

 

<> 

He doesn’t know how much time he’s spent in the bathroom by the time there is a cautious knock on the door.

“Armie?” Tim asks and Armie can almost see his slight frown, two small wrinkles crossing his forehead and brows delicately stooped.

“Just a minute,” he replies and looks in the mirror to check his face.

“May I come in?”

Armie opens the door and meets his worried eyes. “You alright?” Tim touches his forehead immediately.

“I’m alright,” he smiles.

“You want to leave?”

“Leave?” Armie repeats, surprised. “No, I don’t want to leave. No,” he says firmly. “I just…”

Tim pushes him back gently and closes the door behind him.

“I just…” Armie says again and doesn’t know how to explain.

I just needed a second alone. I just realized what a fool I was and how lucky, and I needed a second alone, because I would probably start crying at your dinner table if I didn’t leave.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m sorry if I was out long. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“No, it’s fine. We were clearing the table for the dessert. It’s ok.”

Maybe because he is still overly emotional and not thinking clearly, or maybe because he can and it’s a blessing if you can hug a beloved person every time you want, but that’s what Armie does. Suddenly and without any explanation. Hugs Tim fiercely and buries his nose in his alpha’s neck, and holds him close and fast, and doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to talk at all, just hold him and feel him and breathe him.

His little alpha.

No, fuck it, his alpha.

His alpha, so dear it hurts on cellular level.

So singular, so strong.

“Hey,” Tim scratches his head affectionately. “Hey, it’s ok. It’s ok.”

“I know,” Armie whispers.

“They like you.”

“I know.”

“Dad made something special for you, for dessert.”

“He did?”

“He did,” Tim smiles. “And I know what it is.”

“But you won’t tell me,” Armie murmurs into his hair.

“I won’t.”

“Is it something Mexican?”

“Well, that you brought on yourself,” Tim chuckles. “You should have corrected him.”

Armie steps back, “And embarrassed him publicly?”

“How do you know you are not, anyway?” Tim frowns.

“Not what?”

“Not Mexican.”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Their omegas are often blonde and blue-eyed.”

“I’m not Mexican, Tim,” he chuckles.

“What do you have against them? They are fantastic people.”

“I have nothing against them!” Armie sputters. “I’m just not one of them. We’re from German stock, as far as I was told.”

“German?” Tim’s brows shoot up. “No, that… Look, French patriotism is mostly about hating your neighbors - except for the Swiss, because it’s stupid to hate your bankers - but put an ocean in between – and we’ll love you: stay Mexican, we love Mexicans.”

“You fought with them,” Armie points out.

“You fought with them, too,” Tim returns shrewishly. “Stole half their territory.”

“Aha, so I’m American again?”

Tim cocks his head, starts saying something, but doesn’t. “Do you want to see my room?” he asks instead.

“Yes,” Armie can’t help smiling, “but you lost this round.”

“Whatever,” Tim rolls his eyes and turns to leave in a huff, but Armie catches and twirls him around, capturing his mouth in a smiling kiss.

“What for?” Tim blinks.

“Consolation prize,” he winks. “Now show me your room.”

Why the fuck is he so merry all of a sudden he can’t say, but he can barely stop himself from slapping his alpha’s ass on their way out.

 

<> 

Tim’s room doesn’t reflect its former owner at all. First, it’s spotless. And second, it’s been converted into Nicole’s study, so a narrow student bed in the corner and a tall slim bookshelf behind the door are all that’s left from Tim’s no doubt tumultuous years here.

The room is a small, almost perfect square with a view on the roof of the neighboring building. No posters on the walls, no action figures on the window sill, no baseballs scattered around or trophies on the shelves - and still Armie can’t help smiling looking around.

“Was that your desk?” he nods towards the one standing by the window.

“No, Mom bought herself a new one. Mine was totally wrecked.”

“Why did she keep the bed?”

“Just in case,” Tim shrugs, and Armie detects embarrassment in his voice.

In case your son couldn’t make it on his own after all, he translates.  

“Did you like it here?”

Tim looks around and scratches his head. “Sometimes,” he shrugs again. “I had this carpet with a Ferrari on it,” he smiles and looks at the now bare floor. “And there was a plane, too. Navy combat jet, hanging from the lamp,” he looks up. “It was a different lamp…”

Armie goes to the bookshelf and finds that here too almost nothing was left – most of it belongs to Nicole: books about zoning, architecture, real estate market, professional journals. Only on the top shelf he sees the proof that Tim once lived here – accounting basics, bookkeeping and adjustments, forensic accounting, fundamentals of federal income taxation, etc.

Tim comes up and pulls out one of the books from the corner. 

“Look,” he shows it to Armie. “It’s the most important book in the world.”

Armie glances at the bland cover and reads “Statistics for Economics and Accounting.”

“Right,” he remembers. “Statistics. Queen of the sciences.”

“No, not because statistics,” Tim keeps looking at the book in his hands. Armie tries again but can’t see anything remarkable about it.

“You see,” Tim continues quietly, “when I moved out, I didn’t take with me the books from the first two years of college. But then at work we had a case, and there was… well, it doesn’t matter now what it was. Basically, I needed to find out if the guy was lying, how probable was the thing he was claiming. And I remembered that there was a formula that could help me. And it was in this book,” he smiles.

“But I didn’t have it at my place, because I left it here, because I thought I’d never need it anymore. So I called my mom and told her that I’d come by for the book. And she was home, she had a cold, and I came – and there was a man in the living room,” he looks up slowly. “A tall blonde man, blue eyes and a blue tea cup in his hand. And he was my omega. My 10-50. Right there, in my mother’s living room.

“So, you see,” Tim hands it to him, “it is the most important book in the world.”

Armie takes it from him silently and looks at the cover again – bland, so bland, blue-gray with strict white title letters.

“Mom told me to go to my room,” Tim says hoarsely, “and I came here. And I was sitting on this bed. And I remember – I couldn’t breathe. I just couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that it happened to me…”

Armie doesn’t understand how it happens – a second ago they were standing around talking about books, and now they are kissing with such desperation as if the war announcement’s just been broadcasted, as if tomorrow or only an hour later could be entirely too late for anything.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Tim mumbles, grips the back of his neck and firmly pushes him backwards. And Armie loses the sense of direction until he feels the edge of the bed hitting his legs, but by then he is toppling down and Tim is immediately on top of him.

“Tim…” he tries breathlessly. “We…”

“Shhh… You shhh now… You shhh…” Tim whispers and covers his mouth with his.

Next coherent thought comes to him only when he feels Tim bucking against his own hardness and knows they are moving too fast and down the wrong road.

“Tim,” he whispers again and starts stroking his back. “Stop. We need to stop. We are in your parents’ house…”

“Who cares?” Tim kisses his neck. “Who cares…”

“You do,” Armie says gently. “Stop.” His hand dives in Tim’s hair and massages soothingly. “Stop.”

Tim doesn’t reply but the frantic tension starts leaving his body and soon he sprawls on top of Armie, heavy and boneless.

“We’ll be home soon.”

“Yes, home,” he mumbles, and they continue lying like that for some time, trying to calm their breathing.

“You’re in my bed,” Tim gets up on his elbows and smiles.

“I am,” Armie glances around.

“I wish we’d been together in high school. I’d sneak you into my room after a party, get you into my bed, lick you from head to toe… You’d be fretting constantly about my parents…” Tim leans down, nose to nose. “I wish we… Your ass would be mine by first recess,” he smiles cheekily.

“Oh really?”

“Oh yes,” Tim nods. “I’d hound you down in your libraries and suck you off between chemistry and biology stacks. You wouldn’t look me in the eyes for a week afterwards, but we’d both know that your ass is mine.”

“You wish,” Armie scoffs.

“Yes, I wish. I wish…” he sighs and kisses his brow. “What was the get-lucky spot in your town?”

“Get-lucky?”

“Where people went to make out.”

Armie has to think. “We had a waterfall,” he says finally. “Well, it wasn’t really a waterfall, more like river rapids. But we called it a waterfall. I guess that was it.”

“Great,” Tim’s eyes sparkle devilishly. “Trust me, before you knew it, you’d be in the backseat of my father’s car, pants down, windows up, by that waterfall.”

“As if I’d go with you!”

“You would, you would.”

“You think I was that gullible?”

“It’s not about gullibility. You’re just…” Tim purses his lips thinking. “You can’t say to guys like you: _Let’s go and fuck in the backseat of my father’s car._ You have to say: _Armie, let’s go watch the waterfall and you’ll tell me some shit about art._ Then you’d go. You’d know you’d get fucked that day, but you’d go.”

“So I am a hypocrite?”

“You’re what my uncle Logan calls ‘a citizen,’” Tim laughs quietly. “They divide folks into perps and citizens. You’re a citizen, a guy who probably never even jaywalked in his life. So you need plausible deniability for fucking. You need alibi. Waterfall would be your alibi.”

“Right,” Armie is amused, “I’m a citizen, and you - an accountant - are a classic bad boy, staff of legends. No, if we were in high school together, I’d avoid you like a plague.”

“If we were in high school together and you graduated a virgin, I’d consider it my personal failure,” Tim returns stroking his cheek. “Grow a beard,” he says suddenly.

“Why?”

“I have _a thing.”_

“What thing?” Armie smiles.

“A thing for guys with beards.”

“You have a thing for your statistics teacher.”

“I told you that?” Tim frowns.

“Yes, and that you ravished him in the Oval Office.”

“The stuff you remember,” Tim rolls his eyes.

“I remember everything,” Armie nods.

“Except my osso buco.”

“The stuff you can’t let go…”

“Grow a beard,” Tim repeats.

“Who grows a beard in the summer?”

“For me,” Tim smiles.

“And what will I get for that?”

“Oh,” Tim’s smile is all melted chocolate and caramel, “ _you_ will get the best student you can dream of - one very docile Timmy Chalamet. And the thing about Timmy is that he’ll do anything for an A.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah…”

“But only with bearded teachers?”

“Yes,” Tim purrs. “With clean-shaven staff Timmy is very reserved.”

Armie starts laughing quietly.

“Grow a beard,” Tim says again. “You’ll be so hot.”

“Of course, I’ll be hot,” he smiles, “it’s June.”

“So what, roleplay only in winter?”

“I have to think about it.”

“How about slutty nurse? Cool enough for June?”

“There is no good season for a slutty nurse in this marriage,” Armie says firmly.

“Aha, so you can go on shopping spree and acquire a hedgehog, and that’s fine. But when I…”

“Forget about that… thing,” Armie interrupts him.

“No, no, I’m quite interested in that _thing._ It’s a hell of a thing. And with remote control…”

“Guys,” they hear Pauline’s voice from behind the door, “dessert is on the table. You coming?”

Tim groans.

“Yes, yes, we are,” Armie says hastily. “Sorry!”

“Yes, we are, so don’t interrupt!”

“Don’t listen to…” Armie says over him. “Get off me. Off! Off!” he decisively pushes Tim away and gets up trying to straighten his rumpled clothes, then yanks his husband from the bed and attempts to do the same for him.

“Citizen,” Tim smirks.

Armie stops immediately, turns around and leaves without a word.

“You’d’ve never graduated a virgin with me. Ever!” he hears but doesn’t turn around.

“Citizen,” Tim chuckles.

 

<> 

Now, the last thing Armie wanted after everything that’d happened was to be left alone with Tim’s mother – and that is exactly how he finds himself: back at the coffee table in the living room with Nicole whose lips are too polite to smirk but her eyes aren’t.

Through the French doors he can see Pauline pacing on the balcony and judging by sharp gesticulation arguing with someone on the phone. Tim disappeared to parts unknown, probably summoned to the kitchen again by his father.

So Armie is left with the dessert and Nicole.

He should say something, but he really, really doesn’t want to, so he stares thoughtfully at covered in white chocolate raspberries in his glass and prays for a witty but appropriate remark to come. It doesn’t.

_I just made out with your son in your study, haha…_

No, nothing comes to mind.

“You eat it from a glass - you’re French, or so I was told,” Nicole offers with a smile. “In time you can get used to eating salads from martini glasses, trust me.”

“It looks like an art piece,” Armie glances at her. “I’m afraid to eat it.”

“Raspberry symbolizes kindness, you know? A heart, blood red and full of love, and because it’s my husband you’ll find cognac there, too,” she chuckles. “We’ve been thoroughly soaked through the years, I’m afraid – strike a match and you’ll get a blast.”

“Yes, I’ve seen some of that Gallic pride already,” Armie smiles.

They fall silent again.

“Who could have thought, right?” Nicole says quietly and looks at him.

He understands.

This room, that book, the keys… So many little things had to happen, he suddenly thinks, so many little, seemingly inconsequential things – for two people to meet. He could have lived to a hundred never knowing that his alpha was only several stops away.

If Nick picked up the keys… If Nicole didn’t have a cold… If Tim didn’t need the book…

And even further back…

If he didn’t take that atrium job that Nicole saw and liked… If Liz wasn’t on that plane… If he had cold feet at the last moment and didn’t step through his bedroom window and left his hometown…

“Is it…” he looks at her, “is that what you wanted, Nicole?”

“For my son to be happy?” she smiles gently. “Yes, yes, that’s what I wanted.”

“You don’t think we rushed into it?” he asks.

“Armie,” she sighs, “you’re his mate. Do you know that there are states where he wouldn’t even be prosecuted if he kidnapped and married you at gunpoint? Not in New York, it’s true, but… Wouldn’t have stopped him, I suspect.

“And you must have heard about grandfather Guillaume by now. Well, what you got in Timmy is a watered down version, _there_ we are talking about an alpha with twenty years of military service behind him. Those types, they didn’t fuck around, pardon my French,” she winks. “So if you hear anything about fettering, curbing, mounting or breeding and it’s sold to you as some love talk, just know where it all comes from.”

“I think I lost my appetite,” Armie jokes.

“Don’t worry, you’ll domesticate him. You’ve already done more than I ever could – you got him out of those sweaters,” she sounds amazed. “And to think that my mother is responsible for that horror… Ah, it’s truly disheartening.”

At that Tim and his father return, looking very upbeat and smiling.

Armie doesn’t know why – probably survival instinct - but he doesn’t trust either of those smiles right now. He glances at Nicole and sees that his hunch is right – she is frowning, then her face darkens.

“Marc,” she says and sets her verrine on the coffee table.

“Puffy,” M. Chalamet sounds surprisingly sheepish.

“Marc,” her eyes narrow.

“It’s tradition,” the head of the household replies, but his eyes betray a certain dose of embarrassment.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Tim nods. “Fine!” he says decisively.

Armie still has no idea what’s going on. He looks at Tim and Tim smiles at him, and there is something strange about the smile, it’s bigger than exactly necessary. The suspense is short-lived though because when Tim tries – and tries is the key word here – tries to circumvent the couch and reach him, he almost trips over the coffee table and practically falls in Armie’s lap.

“Missed you, sugar,” Tim smiles again and torturously drags himself up aiming to straddle his lap. “Fuck, I missed you,” he says again and plants a loud kiss somewhere in the vicinity of Armie’s nose.

I’ll be damned…

In all their time together Armie has never actually seen Tim drunk, but that’s what he is right now. And drunk… Armie looks in his misty eyes, void of any critical thinking, and corrects himself – no, not drunk, his alpha is completely wasted. Though, how it happened and when Armie can’t begin to understand – he left him for about ten minutes.

“Calvados,” Nicole supplies helpfully. “He can’t stand it.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Tim smiles. “You look so pretty. Soooo pretty. Like the hydra-drants. Hydrrrant! Soooo pretty.”

“He just needs to sleep it off,” Nicole sighs, looking at Armie. “He’ll be alright tomorrow.” Then she turns to her husband, “What did I tell you after his graduation?”

“Puffy…”

“I told you you’d sleep on the fire escape if it happened again.” She folds her arms, “And you damn sure will, genius.”

“It’s ok,” Armie tells her. “I just…”

Tim grabs his crotch, “Bingo!”

Armie changes his mind – yes, let M. Chalamet sleep on the fire escape, for a month at least.

“The boy is married, dear. Happens once. Tradition, you know…”

“You couldn’t give him something else?” Nicole hisses to her husband.

“How much did you drink?” Armie asks quietly.

Tim frowns. “Four,” he raises two fingers.

“Right,” Armie nods.

A sloshed accountant for you, ladies and gentlemen.

“I can drive,” Tim tells him. “I have… a license? Don’t have a car, have a li… lice? Laminated! Do you want a… To the waterfall… Ah, you are… He is soooo hot, Mom,” he turns to Nicole suddenly. “I’m soooo proud. You’re soooo pretty…”

“Oh, honey…” Nicole smiles sadly.

“You’re so pretty. But soooo pretty… You too!!!” he cries suddenly to Pauline entering from the balcony.

“What’s going on?” his sister frowns.

“You’re fucking boo-butiful, Polly. A treasure! She can…” he turns to Armie and starts shaking his hand palm up. “She can…”

“Juggle?” Armie guesses.

“Jug… Yes,” Tim nods. “She can. She has… balls and… tattoo on her ass… big.”

“Don’t breathe into my face,” Armie sighs. “Let’s get up,” he decides and tries to extricate them both from the armchair.

Tim manages to get up, can even stand though keeps clinging to him.

“We should go,” Armie tells Nicole.

“You should film it,” Pauline smirks. “He gets even better. He almost sang at his school graduation.”

“No, no, no…” Armie tries to grab Tim but is too late, because Tim is suddenly surges towards his sister with alarming speed.

“Polly,” Tim stops in front of her. “Always liked you,” he confesses. “Always.”

“Don’t call me ‘Polly,’” she sighs. “And I liked you, too, bro. Always.”

“I’m married,” his voice sounds sad.

“I know.”

“You will… too,” Tim touches one of her ears. “Soft,” he smiles. “You will be… married. You too. Boo-butiful.”

“Oh, you’re such a…” her voice cracks a bit. “Come here, doofus,” she shakes her head and gathers him in her arms, and Tim hugs her happily and starts slowly swaying them both. “And you?” Pauline looks at Marc over his shoulder. “What are you doing there? Your kids are having a moment!”

Armie watches M. Chalamet, who’s been quiet through all this, blushing and joining his children, gathering them both in a crushing embrace.

“Your cab is here,” Nicole says quietly, but she looks at her family, all together, sharing this unexpected moment of gentleness that hits Armie in a place he didn’t think was still hurting. “I’m sorry. It’s just calvados, he is… He’ll be very embarrassed tomorrow,” she says sadly.

“It’s ok,” he clears his throat. “What’s the tradition, anyway?”

“Oh,” Nicole smiles, “men in their family congratulate each other when something important happens, like marriage or birth of your first child. They call it Full House toast: money, health, fecundity,” her eyes soften. “Three drinks to good luck and one more to forget the bad stuff.”

“You have a beautiful family,” Armie whispers.

“You too,” she replies.

 

<> 

Pauline is right, it gets better. Drunk Tim is like a radio jumping between stations uncontrollably, with the sound going in and out of focus.

It’s about half an hour from the Chalamets’ place to their apartment, but the ride is dull and Tim is bored and his omega is here, and he just doesn’t want to wait until they are alone, because the driver apparently doesn’t count.

“Keep your… Don’t…” Armie catches his hands for nth time and tries to hold his wrists. “Tim, shhh. Be quiet.”

As a response he gets a soulful gaze, full of loneliness and spleen, but with no rational thought on the horizon

“We’ll be home soon,” Armie relents. “Just be quiet for a second.”

“Boxers,” Tim giggles. “Checkered!” and suddenly punches Armie in the chest with such force that it makes him squawk, all air knocked out of him.

“Not on my backseat,” the driver glares at him from the mirror.

“Ju… just drive… faster,” Armie croaks and grabs Tim’s wrists again. “Try to sleep. You know you want to.”

“Har-puh, har-puh, har-puh,” Tim looks at him. “You snore.”

“I don’t,” he says tiredly.

“Will burn your panda blanket!” Tim declares.

“I’ll evict you.”

There is no reason to believe that Tim heard or believed him, because at the next intersection he remembers something else. “I… don’t look like an owl. No! You… look like a tiger. Wet! When wet. And boo-butiful. And…” he searches for the word. “And woolen,” he nods. “Wet.”

“And woolen,” Armie nods.

“Group of owls - parliament.”

“And group of parliaments?” he smiles.

“Republic,” Tim nods. “Three branches.”

“And on each is an owl?”

Tim clicks his tongue – very stupid question, very stupid. “Owls barf.”

“Well, that’s in store for you too now.”

“Storm?” Tim smiles. “Remember?” Then, “Fucking silly, Armie! Storm – no hat. Silly… im-impractical like… a turtle! But… I like your nipples.”

“Oh, your poor head,” Armie sighs and kisses his forehead tucking him safely under his arm. “Your poor, poor head.”

“Omega - never hungry. Cold. Hungry,” Tim whispers. “Never. You have no hat.”  

“You gave me a hat,” Armie smiles. “Rabbit.”

“Rabbit?” Tim wonders. “Yes,” he agrees, “rabbits. Everywhere. In Australia – everywhere.”

“Everywhere.”

“Cold,” Tim nuzzles his neck getting comfortable. “You never say you love me,” he says and closes his eyes.

“We’re almost home,” Armie mumbles distractedly.

What do you mean?

I do… I do, all the time. In bed, in the kitch… Of course, I do! I must have. That time when… No, it’s not true. I told you that I love you, didn’t I?

Didn’t I?

 

<> 

When they finally arrive, he doesn’t hesitate picking Tim up bridal style and carrying him inside. The elevator is working, but he has no desire to wait for it and so chooses the stairs.

He thinks Tim is sleeping, but glancing at him briefly he notices that his eyes are open, sparkling with reflected street lights. Out of the blue he remembers Tim telling him that he would never be able to do it – carry him like that: sweep him off his feet and take him away.

And he thinks, but I love you. I love you, you must know this.

I love you with the dizzying intensity and appalling greediness of last love – your last chance: everything after will be dust and will taste like dust, so you save it, you begrudge, you hoard; but also with the stunning recklessness of the first – break-neck speed and youth eternal.

I love you with fury, jealousy, laughter and thirst, the way you love a bottle of champagne found in the fridge on a hangover morning: ice and sandpaper, it wrecks your throat - drink slowly but you can’t.

I love you the way desert people love snow – with incredulity and awe, struck dumb by the beauty of a snowflake.

The way you love a triangle of cranes in the sky – an arrowhead pointing to the lands never seen, to a place where summer dies and probably to gods.

The way you, trapped in a stuffy darkened cinema, love saucy Technicolor after frugal black-and-white diet – unforgettable blow to the senses, eyes blinded, eyes changed.

The way you know you will never love again: exuberance and pain mixed together, whispering to you at night – you’ll be haunted by this face for the rest of your life, you’ll look for it in every subsequent random lover, in every passer-by, in every movie star - and you’ll hate them all for not being the one, and you’ll punish them for that crime.

I love you conscious of time, of its treachery and destructiveness, its cruel logic of evaporating seconds. Time steals everything it gives, ruins bodies and souls, makes liars out of saints. Who would dare to love conscious of time? But I love you still… tenderly and foolishly.

I must have told you all that, Armie thinks. I must have. I couldn’t not have done it. It’s impossible…

Tim stirs in his arms, and Armie realizes that he was crushing him, smothering his fragile body in his arms.

“Where are we?” he asks drowsily.

“On the stairs,” Armie replies. “Sleep. We’re almost home.”

He feels that cold nose on his neck again, feels his alpha inhaling deeply and slowly relaxing.

Armie is reluctant to put him down, but there is no way around it if he wants to unlock the door. So he lowers his legs gently, catching him around the waist to keep him upright, and searches for the key. Tim murmurs something but appears to hold on – his hands clutching Armie’s blazer and his face buried in his chest.

Inside Armie tries to pick him up again, but Tim shoves away his hand and starts walking unsteadily. To let him go now would be risky, so Armie keeps his arms around him and they slowly walk.

Then Tim stops so suddenly that Armie almost trips him in his forward momentum.

“Where is grandpa Gui?” he demands in a surprisingly clear voice.

“In Canada,” Armie chuckles, “as far as I know.”

Tim has to think about it for a second, then he nods. “Certain. Sur le lac. Grands-Chênes-sur-le-Lac.” He looks at Armie, “Grands chênes.”

“Certain,” Armie nods.

The tentative voyage continues. They make it to the bedroom when Tim cries, totally enraged, “I _hate_ paprika!”

“Why?” Armie smiles trying to maneuver him through the door.

“Tax financial transactions, Armie,” Tim explains. “Financial… High-freq… Wall Str… You know? The key…” He grabs Armie’s wrist and shakes it, “Remember!”

“I will,” Armie promises.

“The key,” Tim looks at him pleadingly. “Speculation, excessive. The key,” he nods.

“To curb excessive speculation?”

“The key,” Tim repeats. “They won’t vote…” he looks at Armie again.

“It’s ok,” Armie touches his cheek. “It’s ok.”

“They know…” Tim says brokenly. “Will crash again… They know…”

“Don’t worry about it now,” Armie replies softly. “You need to sleep.”

Tim frowns, still furiously thinking about something, but mental winds that brought this last thought carry it away equally effortlessly, so when Armie stirs him towards the bed he goes.

Armie sets him down gently and starts unlacing his boots. Tim only sighs again, docile as a marionette, his shoulders stooped in obvious fatigue. Armie takes off his boots and lifts his legs on the bed with Tim following all his movements thoughtfully.

“Want to throw up?”

Tim shakes his head, but Armie decides to bring the wastebasket from his study, just in case. And maybe some aspirin. Definitely water.

“Never liked blondes,” Tim informs him while Armie is peeling off his jumper. “Never.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he chuckles.

“Why?” Tim frowns looking at his hands unbuckling his belt.

“I don’t want you to sleep in your clothes,” Armie explains quietly, but he stops. “Only that.”

Tim looks down again and nods, so Armie finishes quickly, tugs off his jeans and lies him down, covering him carefully with that monstrous blanket.

“Good night,” Tim yawns.

“Good night,” Armie kisses his forehead. “Good night.”

He quietly leaves to fetch some water, grabs the wastebasket along the way and by the time he returns Tim is sleeping soundly, only the top of his head peeking from the puffy nest.

 

<> 

Next day, cup of coffee in hand, Armie enters the bedroom and finds Tim awake, chugging down that water he left for him the night before.

“Morning,” Armie sits beside him on the bed.

Tim stops drinking, wipes his mouth and looks down guiltily.

“You ok?” Armie asks.

Tim nods.

“Headache?”

Tim shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t remember much, but I’m sorry.” He finally glances at Armie but immediately looks away again. “We have a… I don’t know why this thing affects me like this. It’s just… I’m fine with everything else, you know? But…” he sighs and doesn’t finish.

“But calvados blows up all your lightbulbs,” Armie smirks.

“Yes,” Tim nods. “I don’t know why.”

“But you’re fine now?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just… a bit foggy.” He scratches his cheek and looks at Armie frowning, “What happened?”

“We went to your parents,” Armie shrugs. “It was alright.”

“I know that but… Did I… What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Armie smiles. “You did nothing. You just became very cheerful all of a sudden.”

Tim groans. “I remember… My dad cooked turbot for you,” he looks at Armie.

“He did.”

“Yes. Pauline had those ears on, right? And we…” His eyes widen, “We were in my bed! Did we fuck there? Oh, no, no, no… Oh no! Mom will be furious!”

“Calm down,” Armie pats his knee. “We didn’t do anything. We were in bed, briefly, but nothing happened.”

“Why?”

“Why were we in bed or why nothing happened?”

“Both.”

“You wanted to show me your room, we started talking…” Armie frowns. “We got sentimental, I guess. But briefly.”

“Sentimental?” Tim raises his brow.

“It was nothing,” Armie waves him off. “Why do you hate paprika?”

“Papr…” Tim starts. “You’re German Mexican! I remember!”

“Only according to your father.”

“Oh, right… Right, right, right. He called you Armando. Right,” Tim says and looks at the coffee greedily.

“Careful,” Armie gives it to him. “It’s hot.”

Tim nods but gulps it down almost in one swallow.

“Ah, we need to air the room. It smells like a brewery,” Armie scrunches his nose.

“Smells like oaks, apples, earth, and smoke,” Tim rolls his eyes. “Fifty years old or so.”

“Too much smoke for one bedroom,” Armie sighs. “Ok, let’s get you in the shower,” he starts tugging at the blanket.

“NO!” Tim cries and grabs the bed, eyes full of panic.

“I meant you alone,” Armie says drily.

“Oh…” Tim relaxes. “Yes, ok.”

“Alright,” Armie gets up. “I’ll make breakfast today. Can you eat?”

Tim glances at the wastebasket by the bed and blushes, “Yes, yes, I can eat.”

“Omelet?”

“Yes.”

“And don’t wear my boxers again,” Armie tells him from the door. “Looks like a skirt on you.”

 

<> 

Tim’s fog slowly lifts over the course of the day. But first it gets dark and stormy, when he discovers traces of Armie’s brief sojourn in the kitchen and gives him a thorough dressing down for “messing it all up, all of it.”

“What is this?” Tim’s eyes flare up.

“I… have no idea,” Armie replies looking at some device in his hand. “A file?”

“It’s my lemon zester!” Tim fumes. “Why the hell is it among the knives?”

“I didn’t put it there.”

“Who did?”

“Tim, who could possib…”

“Out!” Tim points to the door. “Thanks for the omelet. Out!”

“What are you going to do? Fumigate the place after me?”

“I need to make it right,” Tim looks around. “It doesn’t feel right. It’s wrong. All wrong. Out!” he says with finality.

Making it all right takes his whole afternoon during which he takes the trouble to be as noisy as humanly possible, scratching, moving, clinking, banging something just to demonstrate the gravity of Armie’s offence.

 “I’ll be damned if I cook for you ever again,” Armie grumbles from his study. “Trying to be nice…” Bang! “Helping…” Bang! “No gratitude… My best omelet… My only omelet…” Bang! “All the whisking… No gratitude.”

BANG-BANG-BANG

 

<> 

Next day Armie is informed that they are going to the museum. Tim dons his special gray blazer and says it in a way that shows that he doesn’t expect any protests but is perfectly ready to squash all budding resistance.

“What do you want to see?” Armie asks him on the way.

“I don’t want to see anything,” Tim replies calmly. “It’s time for you to learn something of substance.”

“Wait, where are we going?” Armie frowns when they miss the station.

“Museum of American Finance,” Tim smiles pleasantly. “You like pain – I’ll show you pain. It’s one continuous bloodbath from the dawn of history and to current administration.”

“Tim, I’m not really… That’s not my sphere,” Armie says tactfully.

“Mona Lisas aren’t my sphere either,” Tim shrugs. “Don’t worry, I’ll break you gently. We’ll start with currency, then, if you are adventurous enough, there are exhibits dedicated to banking, securities and trading.” Tim looks at him, “Though I’m not sure you can take it all at once. Forty-minute rule works here too. You can stomach forty minutes of education for the sake of your marriage, right?”

“I… Well…”

“I’ll walk you in the park and buy you a pretzel later, I promise.”

To Armie it all sounds suspiciously like that love talk Nicole was warning him about and which he heard briefly when they first met.

“I don’t need breaking,” he glares at Tim.

“But you want a pretzel, right?”

Alright, it’s not about pretzels, but for marriage’s sake… for marriage’s sake Armie decides that he can stomach some financial history on the weekend. And turns out, Tim is quite good at explaining when he is into it and when subject fascinates him, as money, apparently, does.

“Here you see the history of our country in front of you. Everything – the shame, the glory, the defeats, the victories, racism, genocide, chauvinism, but also genuine pride and idealism,” he points to the display of banknotes starting from Colonial times and ending with current examples.

“There were buffaloes at some point,” he nods towards a bill with the print of the animal. “But we slaughtered them, so we changed the bill. We also added some Native Americans at some point – as a sort of apology, I guess.”

“And women?”

“Well, yes, we thought about them later, too.”

“Much later.”

“You can’t do it all at once - we still don’t have an omega on any of the bills, and we never did,” Tim shrugs. “Mostly it’s presidents, and presidents are alphas, of course.”

Of course, Armie nods.

“Do you think there ever will be an omega on the bill?” he asks.

“Hmmm… yes, I think it will happen, but we usually chose a historic figure…” Tim breaks off. “Actually, no, there were women. Not real – statues, but there were some. Look,” he points at a small five dollar bill in the corner, on which, it’s true, a matronly woman very properly clothed is depicted.

Historic figure, Armie muses.

Right. It’s quite difficult to become a historic figure when up until recently, if you take a historical perspective, you couldn’t leave a house without your alpha’s explicit permission, couldn’t get a job, couldn’t buy a damn handkerchief. And then they ask you – what have _you_ ever done for this country? Sit tight. Be grateful.

Plus, why would you want your mug on a bill anyway?

“Right,” he says aloud. “There were some women.”

“There are omegas in Congress now,” Tim says and can’t avoid sounding a bit guilty. “There will be more… France had an omega president,” he says proudly.

“A woman,” Armie points out.

“Yes, a woman, but… Look, it’s complicated. It takes time.”

Yes, Armie agrees silently, it’s complicated. It’s complicated and it’s very simple at the same time – you learn a thing or two and you stick to it; with time you let it grow around you like a carapace, and it becomes downright painful to change your mind later. You’re not a bad person, you’re pretty sure of that, but if someone suddenly shows that you believe in evil things, it feels like being skinned alive: where do you stand now? Who are you? Are _you_ evil?

You didn’t want countless people to suffer, you didn’t fire a single gun in your life, you didn’t imprison, torture or hit a single human being, but you were so wrong for so long that you kind of did.

Kind of.

Horrible feeling.

Makes you scared.

Makes you angry.

Makes you violent.

You’re not a bad person at all, but when someone says that your comfortable world is rotten to the core you want to crush him: your sky is falling, breaking the rainbow apart, and someone has to pay for this. Someone has to.

France had an omega president once, and there were riots on the streets on the night she won, there were cars burning and shop windows smashed, there were bloodstains on the sidewalk and smell of melting tires in the air. Her eyes were blue as cornflower, the night was black as hate.

France had an omega president once…

It’s complicated.

It takes time.

“I want my pretzel now,” Armie says interrupting Tim who is talking about some large bill from the next showcase.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here, should I?” Tim looks at him sadly.

“Why? No,” Armie shakes his head. “I like it here. I want to know all about banking and… money and stuff. We can come again next week.”

He can’t decipher what Tim is thinking. His alpha looks around distractedly, then back at him and finally says, “Alright, let’s go get your reward.”

“And some shoes for you.”

“Shoes for me?” Tim frowns.

“Yes. We got you new clothes, now we need to upgrade your footwear,” Armie tells him remembering the thought that came to him yesterday while he was unlacing Tim’s boots. “You need dress shoes, at least. Let’s go.”

“You’re going to buy it here?” Tim sounds shocked.

“Yes, _we_ are going to buy it somewhere around Central Park, because _we_ can afford it once in a while. Tim, shoes are important, no less important than cufflinks.”

“Armie…”

“We have a joint budget now,” Armie reminds him. “When you bought those tomatoes on Thursday, who paid for it, you or me?”

Tim takes his time, his brows moving at surprising angles and at last settling at the place they belong. “Fine,” he says. “But nothing, you know… schmancy.”

“Of course not. We’ll find you a pair of hardcore oxfords. Tough as nails.”

“Your pretzel,” Tim glares at him, “is waiting.” 

 

<> 

They end up buying two pairs of oxfords – one black, one cherry brown, because that’s as light as Tim would go. Armie tries to tempt him with some beige or camel suede and hears that they look like slippers, “or something.”

Technically they still have two separate accounts and need to go to the bank to finalize their verbal agreement, so he has a very vague idea about Tim’s current solvency; what he knows though is that his husband uses debit card and is dead settled in his ways. And all this worries him when Tim insists he’ll pay for the shoes himself and goes to the register.

Then Armie gives himself a mental slap.

Resounding.

I’m babying him, he realizes. Or maybe not yet, but I’m heading that way - a couple of jackets, once carrying him up the stairs and I’m starting to see myself as some kind of savior or benefactor. But he is not a child or an invalid. I didn’t find him on the street, for fuck’s sake, he’d been supporting himself for years before we met. He is perfectly capable of balancing his budget, and this knee-jerk reaction of mine is what he was talking about when he told me about dignity.

He doesn’t need me counting his every breath and fretting. He is an alpha - my alpha - he won’t accept it, and least of all from me.

His father avoided this mistake, and I’m rushing into it.

So Armie patiently waits while Tim pays and doesn’t bat an eyelash when he later buys them a couple of pretzels on their way to take a stroll through Central Park.  

It is a beautiful summer day, sunny and fresh. Sparkling June still remembering spring coolness, still kind enough to spare you sweat and sunburn after twenty minutes outside.

After wandering around aimlessly, they end up at the Bethesda Fountain and sit by the water watching the people streaming by, pleasantly lulled by liquid murmuring.

“About 46 thousand people,” Tim smiles.

“What?”

“Here, right now,” he looks around. “About 3 million will sit where we are now sitting in the course of the year. Most of them will enter through the southern entrances and most of them won’t be New Yorkers. Of those who are here now, around 40 thousand came for the same reason as we did – to eat a pretzel and relax.” He smiles, “Passive recreation. 11% of those 40 thousand are doing the same thing we do – people-watching. Which means that…” he calculates silently, “4,300 people in New York wish for nothing better than look at other people on a Sunday afternoon.”

He takes out his phone and starts typing something.

“27 thousand came here alone today. 2,310 have never been and will never be married. And of those who will, 6,584 will decide to never have children. 9,655 will at some point cheat on their spouses, and 6,759 of those spouses will never know about that. 8,767 of women currently here masturbated at least once this month, and 8,906 never had orgasm during sex, most of them betas. Of 3,234 male alphas walking around only 194 will admit that they had sex with another male alpha,” he pauses. “8,316 out of all can’t speak English well enough to read it. 13,860 don’t believe in any of the gods, but 12,012 strongly believe in witches. 32,802 have a smartphone and 14,322 don’t know the name of their neighbor. 370 will be dead within a year, 80 of cancer. 2 will be murdered and one of the killers will never be found,” he looks up. “But at the same time there are… 127 people here who share your birthday - the day, not the date. Aaand, wait a second,” he goes back to his phone, “there is a very good chance that there are three Armands here right now. Plus, there is a… 0.0000006% chance that the only other Armand Hammer currently residing in the US is here too.”

Armie blinks.

He has no idea what to say at first, so he blinks again.

In all honesty, somewhere between orgasms and witches he decided to tell Tim that he loved him. He was sure of this as never before.

And he is still sure but…

“What do you mean _another_ Armand Hammer?” he sits up straighter. 

“There are two of you,” Tim shrugs. “Well, not of you, but… You and this other guy.”

“Who is he?”

“I have no idea.”

“But how do you know?” Armie demands, still a bit outraged.

“That’s open-source information - Social Security statistics.”

“And how many more of you are there?”

“There is only one of me,” Tim says proudly. “Behold,” and he strikes a suitably heroic pose.

“You sure?”

“I checked a couple years ago.”

“Check again,” Armie orders.

Tim sighs but gets back to his phone, typing something else. “No, I am still unique,” he announces triumphantly. “And!” he raises a finger and then types again, “…if you took my name, then…” he frowns, “No, there will be two of you still. One Armand Chalamet already exists. Sorry.”

“Where is he?”

“Armand Chalamet?”

“No, Hammer. Where is this other Hammer? In New York?”

“You can’t see this information here. No one will just publish someone’s home address or other private details. The only thing you know,” he waves his phone, “is that at some point someone had a child and named him Armand Hammer, and he is still alive. That’s all.”

“I don’t like it,” Armie admits and knows that he sounds childish but honestly can’t help it.

Tim smiles. “You can be such a goof sometimes. In your own unique way,” he winks.

Then Armie remembers something else Tim said. “Two of these people will be murdered…” he looks around.

“Well, according to the current crime rates, yes,” Tim replies, and they fall silent.

Dimmed sounds of the city barely reach here. If you don’t look up, at the stern wall of skyscrapers surrounding the park, you can forget that you’re in one of the busiest places on Earth. More than 8 million people, as far as Armie knows. Several hundred of them will be killed within the next year, and there is a good chance, according to Tim, that two of them are here right now.

Statistics is kind of magic, he muses.

It can tell you anything and everything, break the world into numbers until this human anthill starts making a bit of sense. You can calculate the probability of tsunami, financial crisis or next world war. You can find out why and how often people divorce, cry, shower or steal. How many lie to their bosses, have a gun, were abducted by aliens, love cats more than dogs, shave their balls, eat too much or can’t afford breakfast every day.

You start perceiving some kind of order, some logic and structure. It’s reassuring. It helps.

Then you see an irate woman kicking her two-year-old child in the street - and it defies comprehension. So you scurry back to where you started - it’s chaos, it’s madness, it’s nonsense.

But some learned people will tell you that no, there is statistics for that, too - this woman is explicable, she makes sense, they’ve got her number. Though, you wouldn’t want to know that that number is in double digits.

You see all that, you think about it all, and suddenly you realize an unpleasant worrying truth – you’re statistics, too. Your private tragedies, epiphanies, mistakes, redemptions – moments that defined your life - in the great scheme of things are just numbers, tables, formulas and degrees.

Statistics is magic.

Two of the people here will be murdered within a year.

Math is impartial, math knows this, and the only thing - the most important thing of all - that it can’t tell you is who.

Who?

That red-headed woman over there with her golden retriever?

That teen on his skateboard?

That old lady in a funny hat?

That somber man with a moustache?

Your husband?

You?

Statistics is magic, but all magic is a lie, kind of.

“Let’s go home,” Armie says. “I feel a bit tired.”

  

<> 

Armie wouldn’t call himself a hedonist per se, but he likes comfort. Having lived in a place where traffic accident could often involve a truck and a cow and where Elizabeth could ride a stallion into a school yard, he understands the allure of rusticity, that call of the wild that so many city folks profess to hear and few know what they are talking about; he gets it but he doesn’t miss it.

Yes, country is romantic, elements build character, communion with nature, true grit and all that. Nice. Been there, tried that, I’ll pass this time. No, these days a picture of a mountain is better than a mountain, the whole Appalachian Trail is less than one working bidet, sorry.

He knows himself – he won’t be caught dead canoeing across the Atlantic, or anything equally preposterous. Country made him very urban.

Urbanity includes suits, rats, garbage on the sidewalk, tofurkey, constant stress, opera, manicure, polluted air and broadband; and from time to time – long hot shower, white fluffy bathrobe and a glass of icy rosé, with a current bonus of some Sunday love - double or triple dose - if his husband is game.

So Armie did it all: shower, bathrobe, some perfume in strategic spots – for, you know, strictly esthetic reasons, nothing to do with pleasing anyone, just esthetic – and after all his trouble he receives _this_.  

“What is this?” he exclaims after his patience is exhausted completely. “What is this… nonsense? Get off me!”

Tim scatters back as swiftly and with as much panic in his eyes as if a gun went off two steps away, and sits at the end of bed looking at Armie apprehensively.

“What is wrong with you?”

“I did something wrong?”

“Tim, you asked if you can untie my robe, you asked if you can pull my hair, you asked if you can kiss my ear… My ear! What is going on?”

“You don’t want me to ask?” Tim frowns.

“If we’d met two hours ago - probably. But as it stands I want to know where it’s all coming from. Is it some roleplay? Because I’m afraid I wasn’t given the script,” Armie sits up.

“Roleplay?”

“Talk,” Armie warns, “talk or I’ll bite _you._ ”

“But nothing… nothing is… What do you want, for me to just throw you on the bed, do my thing and turn away to sleep?” Tim counterattacks.

“No, I don’t want you to just _do your thing_. But I don’t… It’s like you’re scared to touch me, or something,” Armie looks at him accusingly.

“I want to treat you right, that’s all,” Tim shrugs.

“Treat me right?”

“Well, yeah… I think… being considerate, you know. Tender, gentle…”

“No,” Armie shakes his head. “I’ll be gentle here, you… you be you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Mother Nature gave you fangs – use them, they are not decoration.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“I want to…” Tim starts hesitantly. “It’s just… I guess I didn’t see some things. Didn’t really think… But you were right. In the museum, you were right. We need equality.”

“Museum?” Armie stares at him astonished. “Yes, I brought it upon myself, I guess,” he sighs. “Equality? And you decided to start in the bedroom?”

“I want to treat you right,” Tim repeats. “Because there is history…”

“Yes,” Armie nods, “there is history, years and years of unimaginable injustice. So you want what? To rectify it singlehandedly? And through me, no less?”

“I want to treat you right,” Tim says stubbornly.

“So we’ll have equality now?”

“Yes!”

“This is insulting frankly,” Armie says tiredly.

Tim looks at him startled.

“Yes, yes, it is. You think I, what, suffered in silence all this time? That I can’t tell you what I want? You think I’m that spineless?”

“Of course not!”

I’m getting nowhere, Armie sees. Because he is right, in his own way he is right, but there is something here that’s… wrong.

Something…

He has a feeling that he was thinking about that something earlier. When? In that museum? He tries to remember: shoes, debit card, babying, fountain, numbers, numbers, numbers, pretzel, shoes, fountain, witches, murders, tell him you love him, buffaloes, wom…

Wait a second.

Armie cocks his head. “Look at me. What do you see?”

“It’s a trick question, right?” Tim asks, probably remembering his track record.

“No, it’s a pretty straightforward one,” Armie rolls his eyes. “What do you see?”

“My… omega,” Tim replies carefully and immediately corrects himself. “No, sorry, omega. Just… omega. Without… Just omega.”

“Omega?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want you to see an omega,” Armie tells him, “yours or anyone else’s - I want you to see me. You managed to do it before.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. You see an average number, or whatever you’d call it. You see that absurd average person that doesn’t exist and never did.” He pauses and then asks, “How suicidal are male omegas? I mean as a group, on… average.”

“Well, they are considered to be at risk. Suicide rates aren’t alarmingly high, but suicide attempts are much more common than in other subgroups.”

“Why?”

“You can say that it’s a combination of socio-economic conditions that leads to…”

“To nowhere,” Armie interrupts him. “Tim, no one slits his wrists over these socio-economic conditions. You kill yourself because you can’t pay electricity bills, or your lover left you, or some jackass posted your naked pictures on the net, or because you’re so fucking tired you just want out. Plus a bunch of other reasons. And the worst part is that you’ll never be able to save them all. Period. There is a whole genre dedicated to this noble but ultimately pointless mental exercise – it’s called utopia.

“People for millenia tried to understand how to make everyone happy – and the answer is you can’t. And you can’t because there is no such thing as an average omega, alpha, teenage girl, or middle-aged man. And I’m not one either - I’m messed up in my own unique way. But I don’t consider myself a…” he stops suddenly.

He wanted to say ‘victim’. 

He doesn’t.

And at the same time…

At the same time he blames Tim. He can’t help it.

I’m sitting here and teaching him about statistics, but in reality I fell into the same trap - in that damn museum I looked at him and for a moment all I saw was this stereotypical alpha, this asshole extraordinaire who pillaged and slaughtered his way to power, exterminating everything that stood in his way.

I saw that average alpha, this caricature that doesn’t exist.

I saw – and he felt it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Tim,” Armie looks at him. “I… Whatever I… It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. I got caught up in the moment there, it was an instinctive reaction…”

“What do you mean?” Tim frowns.

“Look, all this history talk… You’re right that it matters – past is the shadow you can never outrun. But it’s… I don’t see you that way, I never did, and you didn’t buy me on a market square, you didn’t put me on a leash, I was never your property, or anything. Sins of the past are yours, only if you choose to repeat them.”

“Well, I don’t want to repeat them!”

“That’s wonderful,” Armie smiles sadly, “but treating me as some crystal figurine that you put in a cabinet and are scared to touch foreverafter is not the answer.”

“Then what is?”

Ask me something simpler, Armie thinks. Humanity spent centuries to figure that one out and too often came to the wrong conclusions, unfortunately.

Alphas are strong, betas are mediocre, omegas are beautiful – we invented these little boxes with the idea that it would make life easier for everybody, but the boxes turned into prisons and produced monsters. So now alpha showing weakness is a loser, beta with ambition is an upstart, and omega with a brain is a cunt (fellas generously included).

“Your sister is right!” he says suddenly.

“My sister?” Tim is stunned.

“Yes, your sister,” Armie nods. “Your sister is a very wise person. I respect her greatly.”

“ _My_ sister?”

“Yes, your sister. Who else’s? She made me think. We were talking… well, we were talking about assholes, you know?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Not you specifically.”

The brow climbs higher.

“You’re not an asshole. Specifically you are not,” Armie clarifies. “But we were talking… She was telling me how she is attracted to assholes in general. And that’s because she can trust them, because a consistently horrible person, he can’t disappoint you basically. You understand?”

“I don’t think I want to…”

“And she was right!” Armie exclaims. “She chooses to date people - men mostly, as far as I understood - who are complete trainwrecks relationshipwise. And she treats them as such, enjoys it while it lasts and then moves on. That’s very wise,” he concludes.

“Dating con artists?”

“No, no, no. Well, to each his own, I guess. No, what is right is her attitude – you see, she doesn’t try to change them and she has no illusion that they will. She accepts them for what they are.

“And it’s so much smarter than what some people try to do. You know, this whole idea – I’ll meet a beast and will turn him into a prince, or a princess. Love will reform them. Blah-blah…

“This is rubbish! You met a beast, accept him for what he is or move on. Don’t waste your time, don’t wait for this magic transformation because it will never happen. And the guy doesn’t owe it to you to change – you can’t love him for what he is, then leave him alone.”

“So, if I’m an abuser, then that’s what? Just peachy?” Tim looks at him as if he is not right in the head.

“If you’re an abuser…” Armie frowns, “then that’s what you are. Then you’ll smack me one day for disagreeing with you. If you’re an abuser, I should run, fight back, ask for help, anything. What I shouldn’t do is sit and hope that it will go away because love is in the air.”

“So now you get love advice from my sister,” Tim nods. “Lovely!”

“She is wise.”

“She has business plan to commodify breast milk! Armie, please!”

“Tim, it’s not about milk. Forget about milk!”

“No, it’s about beasts and monsters.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s about…” he pauses searching for the right word.

It comes from an unexpected direction.

“Porcupines!” Armie cries almost jumping from the bed.

His audience at first is speechless.

“You had a sunstroke I think,” Tim says seriously after a while.

“Do you know how porcupines copulate?”

“The guy pees on the girl.”

“ _What??”_

“Well, that’s how they do it,” his alpha shrugs, then, “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Yes, but not… not that. I don’t… No!” Armie’s eyes pop out. “No, thank you. I was… The joke… The answer is ‘carefully.’ Lame probably, but…” he says still distracted by all the sudden scenarios flashing through his head.

“Tim, what I really want to say is – I don’t want you to change for me. In any way. You don’t have to. And I don’t want to change for you, either.

“It’s pointless. That’s not what love is about. It shouldn’t be about it, anyway. You are what you are and I am what I am, and if we can’t accept each other in our original versions, then we can’t accept each other, period.

“You have your sharp spines and I have mine, and the point is not to break them, but to find a… an angle at which yours won’t hurt me and vice versa.”

“So I’m hurting you?”

“No, Tim, no. Look, we got blown off course with this abuse talk. That’s an extreme example.

“I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did in that museum. It wasn’t my intention to shame you - I don’t blame you for every crime every alpha ever committed. I have no right to blame you, that’s dumb,” Armies explains. “I thought I wasn’t bitter, but I probably am. Bitter about some stuff that you have nothing to do with.

“So we actually return to where we started – you be you. Just be you. I don’t want to change a thing about you.”

“But you do try to change me!” Tim cries. “You want me to go to museums!”

“Well, ok, with museums you have a point,” Armie concedes at first. “No, you don’t. No!” he points at Tim. “With museums – I never asked you to like something that you don’t, I only wanted you to see and understand and then decide for yourself.”

“You want me to dress differently!” Tim says bitterly.

“But I never asked you to dress _like me_. I didn’t just buy you something I consider proper and made you wear it - I want you to dress _better,_ that’s different.”

“You get mad if I leave shit in the living room!”

“Your laundry pyramids and towels from the bathroom?” he folds his arms. “Yes, I asked you to take them away from there, but I don’t police what you do with them afterwards. That’s up to you.”

“You want me to _iron_ them!”

“I might have suggested it,” Armie sighs. “And I’m pretty sure I’m not the first, Nicole must have tried at some point. Though, again – wear wrinkled shirts, your choice.”

“And sex?” Tim folds his arms, too.

“I never made you do it either, as far as I remember.”

“You were grumbling about your coccyx all last Saturday!”

“My coccyx?”

“Yes,” Tim nods, “after we fucked on the floor.”

“Look at these floors!” Armie cries. “Imagine someone wiping them with _your_ ass for 5 minutes! And over this threshold!” he points to the door.

“I was in a hurry.”

“5 minutes is above average, relax.”

Tim’s eyes narrow. “But I’m right - you want gentle!”

“Don’t put words in my mouth! I never said that!”

“Then you loved it?”

“I… khm, well, I’m not exactly opposed to… to something like this happening.”

“Then why were you bitching all Saturday?”

“I had blisters!” Armie exclaims exasperated. “What did you want me to do?!”

“I just can’t figure you out…”

“What can’t you figure out?”

“Like, when you say anything, what the hell do you mean?”

“When I say anything, I mean anything,” Armie replies cryptically. “And when I say no, I mean no. And when I don’t say no…”

Ah, he is truly pleased with this beautiful ellipsis hanging in the air.

“So fucking on the floor is in,” Tim concludes.

Armie looks at the floor: varnished strips of red oak – as tough as they go.

I will regret this, he thinks. The case of knowing you’re making a disastrous decision and still plunging head-on.

“Sporadically,” he says and starts mourning his coccyx.

“And chasing?” Tim doesn’t let go.

“Chasing!” Armie huffs. “Chasing… New York real estate wasn’t built for any chasing!”

“Do you like it or not?”

“How nice of you to ask,” Armie glares at him, “a week later.”

“Let’s arrange all our spines,” Tim shrugs. “Better late than never.”

“Fine,” Armie groans.

“Fine what?” Tim looks at him piercingly.

“You can’t chase me here! Even you must realize that!”

“At grandpa Gui’s,” Tim says without blinking, “there are woods around his village…”

Armie does all the blinking for him. “Well, woods… Woods are… more suitable, I suppose…”

“Earth is soft.”

“Yes…”

“No blisters.”

“No…”

“No people for miles around.”

“Um…”

“You can scream – no one will hear.”

Armie swallows.

“You don’t scream here,” Tim cocks his head. “Soundproof ceilings, but you don’t scream.”

“I am… am a quiet type.”

“You haven’t been fucked loudly,” Tim’s nostrils flare slightly, “my bad.”

“It’s alright. Quite alright. Qui…”

“On your back.”

Armie looks around for some reason.

“I mean you,” Tim purrs. “On your back, now.”

Oh, fucking finally, Armie can’t help thinking. At this rate we could rent out this bedroom to a debate club…

“Ahhh… If you only knew what this smell does to me…” Tim sniffs slowly. “You wanting me… If you only fucking knew…” One corner of his lips twitches, “You didn’t marry a vegetarian, sugar.”

No, guess he didn’t – if one casually bared fang is any indication.

“Close your eyes.”

He does. Hears some rustling, feels Tim moving slowly on all fours, feels his nose lightly touching his knee and sliding up, slowly, slowly. It stops at his groin, sniffs - soft growl, deceptively tender, sends shivers down his spine. And suddenly those fangs are in his side.

Armie almost jumps out of the bed from surprise, but manages to keep his eyes closed in a mix of thrill and fear, every nerve ending electrified and on fire.

He feels Tim licking the place he bit, slowly, carefully, lapping it up. He hears growling again, and then that nose returns and continues its way up, past his ribs, his nipples and stops at his throat. Tim bucks up his chin with his head and bites it too, lightly.

“Hands on the headboard,” the quiet words are almost in his ear.

Armie hesitates, and Tim chuckles and licks his nervous Adam’s apple.

“Hands on the headboard,” his alpha repeats. “Hold fast. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Whuth…” he starts to ask and a hand covers his mouth.

“Shhh… no, you talked enough,” Tim whispers. “You talk too much. You’ll keep your pretty mouth shut for a change. Can you do that for me?”

Armie nods.

“Good,” he hears smiling in Tim’s voice. “You like to be good, right? You think it’s easier to like good people, people who follow rules, who never disagree, never raise their voice, who are harmless. You think people like harmless,” Tim kisses his cheek. “You love it when I tell you what to do. Right?”

Armie is tempted to open his eyes, to see the face, to be sure what the answer should be.

“Do you like it when I tell you what to do?” Tim repeats with a bit of steel in his voice. “Ahhh… yes, you do. I should have asked your cock first – it always tells the truth. My favorite lie detector,” tips of his fingers glide over Armie’s chest and stop at his bellybutton. “Want me to touch you?”

Armie nods.

“How much? A lot?” Tim is smirking. “Well, you hold that thought.”

Armie squirms uncomfortably.

“Oh… hurts?”

_Yes, a bit._

“I know, I know. I jerked off a lot when we first met. You kept me in that café, talking about trees and sofas. Do you know what I was thinking about all that time?” Tim pauses. “I was thinking about this. I could see you like this – open, desperate, mine. I could smell the sweat on your forehead, saw your darkened nipples, I could feel you clenching your cheeks impatiently. All need, need, need. All please, please, please.”

Armie feels him looking, just looking down at him and studying and waiting and thinking, thinking something. He is a breath away from opening his eyes, when Tim says, “If you do it, you’ll regret it. I promise.”  

And that silence again. Silence and darkness filled with eyes unseen and watchful, eyes that don’t miss anything, more palpable than fingers.

What is he seeing?

Why does he wait?

What does he want?

“Tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum,” Tim’s palm is flat on Armie’s chest, his voice lazy and mocking. “For me?”

A kiss on the cheek again.

“Yes, for me. Cocks don’t lie.” Warm breathing on his skin. “Who told you you could shave your chest, by the way?” Tim asks casually. “Huh?”

Armie opens his mouth and it’s closed for him.

“I said I love it. You don’t listen. You never listen,” Tim sighs and suddenly pinches his nipple making Armie’s back arch in pain and surprise.

“Never listen, you. Stubborn. Willful. Insubordinate. Like rules but don’t like mine, is that it? Who did you listen to? Aim to please someone else? Who? Some schmuck who said that omegas should be hairless? Who?”

Tim lets him squirm some more then relaxes his grip. “You do it again – I’ll frog-march you to the living room, bend you over the couch and turn your ass strawberry red with my hand.” A finger lazily circles the throbbing nipple, “You’ll die of embarrassment because you’ll love it.”

He feels Tim’s cock twitch. “You’re something else, omega mine – a cream puff with tabasco filling. All goodie-goodie and proper, but… You loved school, right?” Tim’s face is very close. “Yes, you fucking _loved_ it – homework, discipline, curriculum, people deciding for you, people telling you where to be and when. Never bored you. Starched collar and shiny shoes, never a paper late, not a button missing. Teachers loved you, didn’t they?”

Tim moves his leg and presses his knee to Armie’s balls.

“Didn’t they?” his alpha smiles. “They did. They did, indeed. They were kind to you. Unlike everyone else.”

Out of nowhere Tim kisses him fully on the mouth and Armie can’t keep his eyes closed.

“For being a good boy,” Tim smiles. “Now shut them again.”

He starts playing with Armie’s hair and leans closer again, voice intimate and friendly. “Was there someone special? Some Ms. Carter or Ms. Johns? Pencil skirt and tight blouse, lips red and fuckable. Gave you advice, thought you had a future… Made you all hot when she passed your desk. Fuck, you felt guilty for wanting to screw her, didn’t you? Guilty - and the guilt made you hornier still.

“Did you sniff her stealthily?” a whisper in his ear. “Try to catch a glimpse of her bra? Did you think about her during your heats? Hm?” Tim licks his cheek slowly. “Did you?”

Armie shudders and turns away.

“Or was it someone else?” Tim strokes his chest. “Some quarterback, local star? Fast and graceful on the field, petty and vicious outside of it? 

“You admired him, he despised you. Called you names, tripped you in the hallways, spat in your lunch - an animal, but a magnificent one. You knew that. But you could forgive him, you could forgive him anything because he had something Ms. Johns didn’t and you knew you wanted a lot - a huge dick.”

Blue eyes fly open and bounce of darkened mossy green.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Tim smiles and glances down. “Don’t come yet.” But his knee presses Armie’s balls a bit stronger.

“Yeah… What a pickle…” he smirks, his hand cups Armie’s jaw not letting him turn away, “And then Elizabeth, dear perfect Elizabeth… ahhh…” he smiles again. “One thing she lacked, one thing you wanted…” his hand lands on Armie’s chest. “Tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum. Shhh, shhh, it’s ok. So precious you are, so precious…”

Armie closes his eyes.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Tim leans closer, his voice velvety and unbreakable.

Armie’s breathing catches.

“Do you?” Tim presses his knee harder.

Armie slowly turns his head from side to side.

“Ever?”

Armie looks away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He attempts to shrug but it comes off strange.

“I think you know.” Tim turns his face back to him, “Look at me. I think you know. Thought I’d despise you, too? That I’d be disappointed? That I’d leave like all the others?

“You _are_ a hypocrite, darling,” Tim kisses his forehead. “You don’t practice what you preach. You really think love should be earned, that there are people who deserve it and those who don’t. No why, no because – you don’t think it applies to you.

“You’d fuck me eventually and hate it. But you’d do it again, and again, and again. My sharp spines in your belly – reasonable price for being loved.

“You can be such a goof sometimes,” Tim whispers gently. “But I’ll tell you one thing – you don’t have to be ashamed, ever. Of what you want, of what you are, of anything - least of all needing my cock. You’re mine,” Tim strokes his cheek, “there is nothing about you that I don’t love. No why, no because. You can’t disappoint me. You don’t need to earn points. I’m your alpha,” soft feathery kiss, “you can’t lose it.”

“You can’t lose it…” he whispers again, finally merciful enough to touch Armie's cock and start stroking him slowly.

“Open your legs,” Tim moves and lies on top of him. “Put them around me. Yes. Want to say something? No? Ok. Let go of that headboard now. Relax. Let me in. Let me in… That’s it…” he smiles, and Armie arches his back, feeling him inside.

His fingers numb from gripping that wood, he tries to put his arms around Tim and barely manages it – returning blood like a thousand pin pricks inside and out.

Tim leans down and kisses him deeply, his rhythm becoming faster, more demanding. He stretches his arm and grabs the headboard for leverage, all concentration, purpose, drive. But Armie feels the distance viscerally and tries to pull him back, get him closer, needing that place, his magical private place behind Tim’s ear where you can hide your nose and let go, accept, embrace, relax.

And when his arms are strong again he does just that clutching Tim to him for all he’s worth, burying his nose in his alpha’s silky hair, afraid for a second that his breaths will turn into sobs.

You can’t lose it, you can’t lose it, he repeats silently. You need to remember, you need to believe it…

You’re so lucky. It happens. Don’t be afraid to be lucky. There is no nobility in suffering, forget those useless lessons – people who don’t know how usually teach.

Alphas are strong, and you’ve got the strongest. Maybe the only one strong enough to handle you.

You’re so lucky.

Don’t be afraid.

 

<> 

“We need a safe word,” Tim yawns. “How about ‘Alaska’?”

“Why Alaska?” Armie smiles.

“It’s freezing up there.”

“How about ‘no’?”

“No safe words?”

“‘No’ as a safe word. Won’t it be enough for you to stop?” he looks up from Tim’s chest.

“Well, yes but… it’s dull. Unimaginative,” Tim is thinking. “February?”

“Hell to pronounce.”

“Antarctica?”

“Yes,” Armie chuckles, “that’s better.”

“You’d suggest something like tabourette,” Tim huffs.

“I suggested something like ‘no,’” Armie remarks. “And I’d feel very silly crying ‘Alaska’, you know? But,” he takes a deep breath, “I’ll grow a beard.”

“Beard? Why?”

“Because I love you,” Armie says quietly, and steady tum, tum, tum under his ear turns into tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum…

He hears Tim starting to say something and stopping, starting again…

“Enough to sleep under my blanket?” Tim asks finally.

“Not in June,” Armie smiles.  

“You don’t love me in June?”

“I do,” he kisses his chest, “but my spines don’t like your blanket.”

“Mine don’t like yours either,” Tim sighs.

“And pissing on me…” Armie glances up, “that’s Alaska, right now.”

“Alright, Alaska,” Tim smiles, then, “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Armie whispers.

Tum… tum… tu-tum… tu-tum… tu-tum…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!
> 
> And I wanted to say something about comments, or rather my lack of response to them.  
> I won’t go into details but my decision is based primarily on the belief that I shouldn’t interfere with readers’ experience in any way. I’m too wordy for my liking as it is.  
> I just want you to know – I don’t take comments for granted or ignore them. I can’t imagine a writer who would do that. If I see a question, I write it down and make a note to myself to address or clarify it later. If there is a reference to a song or a picture, I check them out. If there is a suggestion or correction, it makes me think and reassess some things. And a simple ‘hello’ means that someone somewhere reads my words and cares.  
> I’m deeply grateful to all of you. It wasn’t an easy decision for me to start publishing something online, but you make me glad that I did.
> 
> THANK YOU.


	13. Chapter 13

He is scratching it again, cursing silently and regretting his hasty promise.

The beard is growing.

Determinedly.

Day and night.

Tim, never the one to leave matters unattended, buys a special comb and brushes it now regularly. There is not much to brush at first, but he brushes it anyway. To speed up the process.

M. Chalamet is occasionally very French, so tending one’s garden is paramount, including the garden on your husband’s face. Therefore, if you’re the husband, prepare to be tended.

In all honesty, Armie’s face doesn’t need much encouragement - the stuff grows energetically, violently and everywhere: on his cheeks, his chin, his jaws, all over his neck. It’s darker and coarser than the hair on his head and for a couple of days makes him look like a bum, but Tim, as always, sees a bigger picture. Though, he is quite coy about what he actually wants to do with it when it’s here.

His chest is flourishing again, too – the jungle coming back and reclaiming the space that some naïve civilization thought it had conquered. You don’t need any comb, you need a pruner.

“I’m heartbreakingly hirsute,” Armie sighs looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. “Heartbreakingly.”

His hand reaches for the razor and stops: you’re only as good as your word.

So, the beard grows.

Admittedly, Armie’s follicles aren’t the only thing that occupies Tim these days. There is also radiation, suddenly. Radiation bothers Tim very much, to the point that next time they go grocery shopping he out of the blue produces a Geiger counter and proceeds to carefully test every tomato, cucumber, apple and banana before adding them to the cart.

Armie saw folks like that around – he usually kept his distance. And he’d be glad to keep it now, but now he is related to the guy scanning bananas in the supermarket.

“Tim, please, stop,” he whispers urgently.

“Why?”

“We look like tinfoil-hatters,” Armie replies scratching his cheek and instantly remembers that he himself doesn’t look like a trustworthy individual these days, even without a Geiger.

Tim is going to say something when the device starts urgently beeping, and by his husband’s triumphant face Armie realizes that prayers and pleadings won’t be heard – they are here to fight toxic vegetables to the bitter end. No pasarán.

“You need to eat healthy,” Tim proclaims, after finally digging up a cluster of bananas he and the Geiger deem acceptable. “Now, some cherries.”

“No,” Armie says immediately, the picture of Tim going from cherry to cherry front and center in his mind. “Fuck cherries. Let’s go buy some wine. Or something stronger,” he mutters.

“Ok,” Tim shrugs. “But first, potatoes.”

Fine.

Between two evils…

He should have said yes to cherries, Armie realizes, when at the pile of potatoes they run into another health enthusiast – a smiling redhead, bubbling with energy and, it seems, just dying to talk to someone who understands what a perilous task it is to buy victuals these days.

Armie didn’t want to believe it at first, but by now he is resigned to the fact – Tim is gregarious. Very much so. And if there are two guys more different in their attitude towards socializing than he and his husband, Armand hasn’t met them yet.

Tim likes people. He likes to talk to, be around and exchange thoughts with them. So, of course, he is awfully pleased to meet this chick with her radiation counter. They compare their models (hers is analog, Tim’s is digital); they commiserate about the price; they find that it’s very irresponsible to go without such a device; they are deeply saddened that you can’t trust anything in this city, even a vegetable; they agree that it’s very difficult to raise a family today; they are infuriated by inflation (did you see avocadoes? Tim did); they are heartbroken over industrial farming (poor chickens!); in short, he is Tim and she is Sandy, and they both _looove_ talking to strangers.

To Armie, who still hasn’t fully recovered from ringing at his neighbor’s door with a plate of cakes, the scene is utterly incomprehensible. His inner Geiger starts beeping as soon as a human approaches him for any reason and doesn’t stop until that human leaves him the fuck alone. But here is Tim, and Tim doesn’t have any such problem.

Not all Tim’s bumping-ins are accidental, though. In fact, majority of them are carefully orchestrated and thought out; another part of that bigger picture that Armie in his shortsightedness fails to see. Not long after he moved in, Tim baked something and disappeared with it in unknown direction, returning with their building manager’s two private cell phone numbers and a promise of being “available to M. Chalamet at any time.” In contrast, all Armie knows about the man is that his name is Arjun and you should give him something for Christmas, because it’s a polite thing to do.

But that’s not all. Tim knows the neighbors, too. Apparently, most of them. When and how he managed to do it, Armie has no idea, but when Tim now says hello to someone in the lobby – which happens more and more often - there is no way around it, you have to say hello, too. It’s a polite thing to do.

“The Ormans,” Tim shrugged first time it happened. “Sixth floor. He is a pediatrician, she is an animal psychologist. One kid.”

The Ormans. Whatever.

Hello, Ormans. Comment ça va?

And if Armie had any lingering doubts (hopes, too) about his husband communication skills, they all disappeared for good when Tim brought home a brass plaque with the word “LIBRARY” engraved on it.

You see, there was this construction site, and Tim _just happened_ to pass by, and there was this crew there, and Tim _just happened_ to have coffee and donuts with him, and one thing led to another, you know how it goes (though Armie, actually, had no clue), and, well, they gave him the plaque. They were demolishing the building anyway.

“They are destroying libraries now,” Armie shook his head. “It’s the end of the world.”

“Ah, looks almost like gold now,” Tim ignored him while lovingly polishing his trophy. “High amount of zinc in the alloy. Will serve for another hundred years. Useful,” he nodded and glued it to the door of his pantry.

Armie doubted that the glue would be enough to keep it in place, but no, apparently, Tim knows how to choose the right glue, too – he attached the plaque, fixed it with a mop handle for a night, and it is still hanging there, cheerfully suggesting that if you pass the sink and turn to the right, you’ll get straight into the LIBRARY.

All this wheeling and dealing, strategizing and planning is part of the bigger picture, too. You have to know your territory is how Tim explains it. And territory includes City of New York (suburbs, too), their neighborhood (adjacent, too), their building (roof, too), their apartment (every room) and Armie (every inch).

The territory is to be watched over, studied, protected and regularly plowed; its sounds, smells, quirks and pitfalls mapped out and interpreted. Tend your garden, keep your eyes open, trust your nose. Good husbandry 101.

Tim may not say it in so many words, but Armie knows him well enough by now to read between the lines - territory is a fine thing, and worth the fighting for.

  

<> 

It’s one of those rare moments when Armie thinks that brute force is actually best. Learning is - and probably should be - painful.  

He looks at unsuspecting Tim, peacefully reading in bed, and decides, yes, time for some pain. It’s Wednesday anyway, no sex on the horizon, so why not ruffle some curls for a good cause?

“Read, take notes,” he slides a magazine over Tim’s book and braces for impact.

The landing doesn’t bring surprises. “I don’t need it,” Tim replies and hands the magazine back to him.

“Why do you think so?”

“I know this stuff,” Tim says dismissively.

“Oh, really?” Armie folds his arms. “How do you wash a suit in a washing machine?”

“There’s dry cleaning,” Tim pushes the magazine away.

“How do you fold a suit jacket if you’re packing?” he continues.

“Armie…”

“How do you spot cheap clothes? And I don’t mean second-hand cheap, I mean cheap by Upper East Side standards.”

Tim frowns stormily.

“How do you properly use a fountain pen? What is more formal - peaked lapel or a notched one? Can you eat shrimp with your fingers at any formal occasions? How…”

“I don’t care,” Tim groans. “I don’t need it.”

“No, you actually do,” Armie picks up the discarded magazine and dumps it back in Tim’s lap. “You, with all your grand plans, need it even more than me, because on your glorious way up - down from here or sideways - you’ll inevitably be invited to fancy restaurants, fundraisers, meet-and-greets and so on. You will. So I repeat, read, take notes.”

“It’s years from now,” Tim rolls his eyes.

“You don’t know that. It could happen next week. And I don’t want you sitting there, tongue-tied and quietly furious, agonizing over which fork to use.”

“Armie, I hate this bullshit! Forks?”

“It’s bullshit when you’re with people you don’t care to impress,” Armie sighs. “With those whom you do, oh, it’s very important.”

“You bought me clothes, I wear them, I iron them, I… Shrimp? Lapels? What next?” Tim looks at him, then at the cover, from which a gloriously wet dude offers him a glass of champagne. “No, it’s for a different type of guy, not me.”

“Different?” Armie raises his brow. “A douche?”

“Well…”

“I subscribe to this magazine,” Armie says sweetly.

“Well…” Tim coughs. “Great! One lapel expert is enough for any family. More than enough.”

Learning is painful, that’s fine, but why teaching should be too?

Armie looks at the ceiling. Time for heavy artillery. Everything is fair in love and war.

He sighs dramatically and presents his best Armie-is-very-upset face to his mate: Armie-is-downright-disappointed lips and Armie-will-cry-now eyes.

And one, two, three…

“Why is it so important to you?” Tim asks quietly.

Ah, emotional blackmail, there’s nothing else quite like it.

“Because it’s important to you,” Armie smiles and slides closer to him, rubbing his chin on Tim’s shoulder. “Because I don’t want anyone to look at you and think, ‘Oh, yes, a brainy kid, but hardly a protégé material.’”

“I don’t want to be like…” Tim waves towards the cover. “Armie, it’s not who I am.”

“You don’t need to copy every ensemble here. Just pick useful things. It’s March of last year, by the time you get to the current issue you’ll have some idea of what you like or want to try. And it’s not just clothes here, as I said, there is a lot of stuff that, I’m sure, you’ll need at some point.”

“March? I have to read?..”

“Yes,” Armie says happily and gets a groan in response. “Tim, you’re ambitious, you owe it to yourself.”

“Everyone’s ambitious.”

“No, not everyone. I’m not.”

“You are,” Tim frowns.

“No. I love what I do and I love to do it well, but I don’t…” he stops to think about it. “I don’t have… the hunger, this hunger that drives truly ambitious people. I’m content with what I have. I don’t want more, _you_ do. It’s how you’re wired,” he leans closer and kisses Tim’s chin. “Come on, this won’t go anywhere,” he grabs the book that Tim was reading and glances at the title. “ _Contract Farming and Rural Development_? What, we’re moving to Dakota, after all?” Armie smiles.

“No.”

“Another business trip?”

Tim pauses. “No.”

Armie looks at him questioningly.

“Just doing some consulting,” Tim shrugs.

“Consulting? About farming?”

“It’s temporary.”

“Is it what you’ve been doing lately?” Armie asks, remembering the evenings that Tim spent working in the kitchen after dinner.

Tim nods.

“Ok, what is it?”

“What?”

“You look guilty as hell.”

“I don’t!”

“Is it illegal?” Armie chuckles.

“It’s temporary,” Tim says again.

Armie gets up on his elbow and looks at him incredulously. “You’re helping someone to cheat,” he whispers.

“No!” Tim says immediately. “No. I just… I give advice. That’s all. I just help these guys to figure out how to save money. And… it’s not… We’re fine. Look, it’s just a… Like a side job, ok? A hustle?”

Well, how about it? You thought you were going to administer some pain, and suddenly your fake heartbreak isn’t so fake anymore. “Why, Tim?”

“Because I can do consulting,” Tim rubs his nose. “I can’t represent them, but…”

“That’s not what I was talking about. You can’t even look me in the eyes, you’re so ashamed. Why are you doing it?”

“It’s a one-time thing, ok?”

“Money?”

Tim stares at the magazine on his lap.

“Fuck, I feel so dumb,” Armie tries to snatch the magazine from him.

“No, wait. No, I’ll read it. You’re right. Wait!”

“You know, every time I think I get it, I realize I’m at least an hour behind schedule,” Armie says quietly. “A starry-eyed idiot, once again.”

“No, it’s not true…”

“Out of all the things, I never thought it would be money. We have it, Tim. We have enough.”

“I know.”

“I thought we understood each other.”

“We do.”

Armie looks away.

“I’m trying,” Tim takes his hand and tries to draw him closer. “I am. I… I’m almost there.”

“Almost?”

“Almost,” Tim nods.

“Were you going to tell me about this thing?” Armie asks, finally letting himself be hugged.

“In a way.”

“What does it mean?”

“You’d know, eventually,” Tim smiles and kisses his forehead.

“Please don’t tell me you were going to buy me a present with it,” Armie crosses his mental fingers.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why can’t I buy you something?”

“You can! All you need to do is spend the money that we have. You don’t need to hustle. Fuck, Tim!”

“But I can’t give you presents…”

“Bought with my own money,” Armie finishes for him.

“I need some time. Please, just give me time. I’m trying but… it’s not how I was raised.”

“This excuse starts wearing thin, you know?”

“I know,” Tim presses him closer, “I know.” They are quiet for a long time. “What did you think it would be?” Tim asks finally.

“What?”

“You said, out of all the things you never thought money. What did you think it would be?”

“I don’t know…” Armie shrugs. “Just… living together.”

“We _are_ living together,” Tim smiles.

“We are. And it’s you everywhere: I go to bed - you’re here, I wake up – you’re here again. Everywhere, all the time. And everything smells of you,” Armie scrunches his nose.

“Yes,” Tim smirks, “as it should. My territory.”

“Just don’t piss in the corners, please.”

“We covered pissing, as far as I remember.”

“We covered money, too,” Armie reminds him.

“Almost there,” Tim sighs. “Almost.”

“Almost…”

“And you don’t always smell of me,” Tim growls, “you smell of Santini half the time.”

“Delli Santi,” Armie smiles and then remembers. “Oh, right, forgot to tell you – we’re invited to Nick’s birthday party this Saturday.”

“Birthday party?” Tim rolls his eyes. “What is he, ten?”

“I said we’d come,” Armie informs him and hears another growl. “I wrote a letter to Lucia, you owe me.”

“What Lucia?” Tim frowns.

“The one from the spreadsheet.”

“ _Lourdes_ is family.”

“Nick is a _family_ friend.”

“Friend… If this friend… I’ll put his head on a stick, I swear to you.”

I shouldn’t encourage this, I really shouldn’t, Armie scolds himself, then kisses his husband because jealousy in right amounts is good for your soul and has to be rewarded.

“What are you going to buy me?” he smiles.

“Like I’m going to tell you,” Tim rolls his eyes.

“Look, if you’re selling out,” Armie instructs, “the price must be right.”

“Don’t worry, crime pays… I’m joking, I’m joking. But no, my ass ain’t cheap.”

“Ahhh,” Armie coos, “I’m proud of you, son.”

“You bastard,” Tim bites his nose.

“Don’t do stuff behind my back,” Armie looks at him.

Tim nods silently.

“Almost there?”

“Almost.”

 

<> 

Jealousy in right amounts… jealousy in right amounts… Armie chants to himself.

Jealo…

“Behave,” he raises his finger at Tim.

“I don’t trust him,” Tim growls.

“Nick never did anything to you.”

“Let him try…”

“Look,” Armie goes for the button to stop the elevator. “I’ll say you broke your neck and had to stay home.”

“I’ll be nice,” Tim grabs his hand.

Armie looks at him.

“I will,” Tim promises. “It’s just – he’s like a pimple on the ass: your hands are begging you to squash it.”

Armie aims for the button again.

“I’ll be very polite!”

Armie watches for any homicidal ticks. No, Tim is all serenity and love. All humanitarian all of a sudden. “You better,” Armie warns. “And don’t mention your job. Say you’re an accountant.”

“I _am_ an accountant!”

“Well, say that,” Armie nods. “If anyone asks…”

“You conceal who I am?”

“Conceal?” Armie snorts. “I don’t conceal anything, but you know how it is – people who know, know, those who don’t, probably shouldn’t. Tim, you can’t stay away from an argument, if your life depended on it. And the last thing we need is you giving a lecture on politics tonight.”

“Is Gina there?”

“No, she is in San Diego, we’re opening another office there. But you’ll love Trish, everyone loves her – she is a very nice woman.”

“And she is ok that her husband spends all his time with you?”

Unfortunately, Armie is all out of buttons by now – it’s their floor.

“We’re here.” He looks at Tim, “You go with me or you go home?”

“I’ll always go with you,” Tim says solemnly and follows him to Nick’s door.

It’s not clear whether it’s for show or in all seriousness, but Tim sniffs the air carefully, then, as soon as the sound of the key is heard, steps in front of Armie without hesitation. Armie has no way to see what Nick sees when he opens the door, but he can judge by the changes on his face - from a budding smile to sudden apprehension.

“Hey, man…”  

“Hi,” Armie nods over Tim’s shoulder.

“Come on in. Um, hi, Tim,” Nick frowns.

“Hello,” Tim smiles.

“I’ll whip you,” Armie whispers to him, when Nick leaves them to join the guests. “You’ll cry bloody tears when we’re home.”

“Didn’t do anything,” Tim shrugs.

“Get those fangs back into your mouth,” Armie hisses.

“He is a wimp, don’t you see?”

“Have a nice evening,” Armie says, not bothering to even look at his husband, and leaves him standing in the entryway. You’re an industrious fellow, you’ll find your way around. I did what I could.

“He seems moody,” Nick meets him at the bar organized in the living room.

“He’s been warned.”

“You argued?”

“We never do – we just clear the air,” Armie sighs and hands him the box. “Your present.”

“Your martini,” Nick smiles, offering him a glass.

“Thanks,” Armie drinks gratefully, because who knows, he might need it tonight.

“Hm, that’s interesting…” Nick frowns.

“It’s exactly what you asked for,” Armie looks at the box in his hands. “I checked several times.”

“He is charming the pants off my wife,” Nick observes and Armie turns in time to witness Tim bending gracefully to kiss the hand of a slim but toned brunette with a head full of tight curls.

“He is French, he can’t help himself.”

“I thought he liked me,” Nick glances at him.

“I believe he did at some point,” Armie shrugs, hoping it doesn’t sound too sinister.

“Hey, he is giving her something!”

“Strawberry cannoli.”

“Did he poison them?” Nick asks suspiciously.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Armie replies and drinks some more.

He likes Nick’s apartment. Former carpenter in him can’t help admiring custom-made shelves and elaborate chairs, dark wood and red brick of the walls effortlessly mixing with steel and glass in pendants hanging from the ceiling. Not suffering from slickness and frost of ultramodern designs, this place manages to escape the clutter of bohemian chic, too.

Looking around, Armie thinks not for the first time, that Nick should be offered more projects of his own and not simply assist him. His friend has a good eye, he understands space and can use it effectively and he’s worked in the studio long enough to be taken more seriously. And though it saddens him to admit it, but Armie understands that part of the problem is that Nick is a beta. It’s not Nick, it’s the people who look at him and after one whiff decide that he can’t be as artistic or sophisticated as Armie. Even Gina, however unconsciously, makes this mistake from time to time.

Sometimes a glass ceiling is better than no ceiling at all; at least there you’re expected to break it. But when no one thinks you’d even try…

It’s a damn shame, Armie looks at the coffee table with a glass mosaic top made according to Nick’s own design, it’s a damn shame that people see him as a simple craftsman and not the creator that he is. Then he glances at Trish, her radiant smile and lively curious eyes, and remembers that no, someone saw it, and to have even one such person in your life is already a blessing. At least one person who will look past the schlock and find the diamond in you.

Then his eyes land on Tim, patiently listening to something Youngmi is saying. His alpha seems slightly intimidated but covers it well, you’d never know how many times he’d asked what he should talk about with “these people, your friends.” And Armie remembers about the cannoli, getting up early and leafing through the cookbooks to find “something Italian,” and “I’ll always go with you,” and “my 10-50,” and yes, maybe just one person is enough to save you.

He picks up another martini. “Your tabletop is a masterpiece, man,” he pats Nick on the shoulder. “I’m tempted to steal it.”

“Thanks,” Nick smiles. “My mother-in-law said it looks like a turtle.”

Armie looks at the table again, and, hell, the woman has a point there. “What did Trish say?”

“She loves it.”

“And your mother-in-law is a designer?”

“No,” Nick chuckles, “kindergarten teacher.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” Armie says again. “And that rainbow painting, I like it, too.” He nods towards the picture above the sofa.

“It’s a vulva.”

Armie looks again. It is. “Don’t tell it to my husband,” he sighs.

“He doesn’t like rainbows?” Nick smirks.

“He is French,” Armie bites into the olive. “But he is from Brooklyn.”

The evening goes on. At some point they all meet around the table brought into the living room to raise a toast to the birthday boy. Tim is on his best behavior, as was promised. But then – tired of life or simply drunk - Nick says casually that, of course, everyone knows that it was Italian cooks who taught the French their craft. Armie expects a big bang, but Tim just snorts quietly glancing at Nick from across the table - crushing weight of Gallic contempt in one mocking stare: pardon me, monsieur, if I don’t bother to refute this horseshit; and briefly to Armie: I don’t obliterate his ignorant ass as a favor to you, nothing more.

Otherwise, Tim’s two noticeable contributions to the conversation are to point out that the rock that gives Grand Canyon its reddish color is called redwall limestone and that strippers can write off the cost of their breast implants from their taxes.

“It’s recognized as necessary business expense,” he shrugs.

“Really?” the blonde at his right asks incredulously.

“Of course, you have to prove your professional affiliation,” Tim glances at her.

“Like how?”

“Visual presentation is acceptable.”

“It can’t be true,” she giggles.

“Ah, don’t be so naïve, child,” Tim winks, reducing her to a pile of blushing goo.

Nick stretches his hand to take a cannolo. Tim watches. Tim smiles. Nick decides that a brownie will do.

Armie downs another martini.

“He’s so cute,” Trish whispers to him.

“And fluffy,” Armie nods grimly.

The admiration turns out to be mutual, though, because in the taxi on their way home Tim says:

“Patricia is remarkable.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Armie yawns, head thrown back, watching the distant stars flying by in the rear windshield.

“Did you know she can throw knives at 20 feet?”

“Yes,” Armie smiles.

“She showed me some moves.”

Ok, Trish has a brown belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu and teaches self-defense, so that’s alarming. “What moves?”

“Ah, that’s for you to find out,” Tim smirks.

“Trish can throw me over her back,” Armie shudders.

“Really?”

“Yes. She once asked to demonstrate on me, and I was dumb enough to say yes,” he remembers.

“How could she end up with Santini?” Tim wonders.

How does anyone? “Love, I guess.”

“Incomprehensible.”

Armie glances at him. “Sometimes it is.”

“You sing dirty songs when drunk,” Tim lays his head on Armie’s shoulder.

“No, I don’t,” he chuckles.

“Yes, you do,” Tim nods.

“I don’t sing, period,” Armie yawns again.

“Trish says it’s hilarious.”

“She’s never seen me…”

Well, actually…

Oh no.

Oh nooo

“It’s not true,” he says firmly and suspects that it very well may be – he has a volume or two of bawdy poetry - but surely he didn’t grace Trish with a version of _“I love, oh how I love to ride / My hot, my wheedling, coaxing bride.”_

“I’ve never been _this_ drunk,” he says aloud.

“You will be,” Tim promises cheerfully, kissing his cheek. “I’ll see to it.”

Dream on, Armie smiles and puts his arm around him, pressing him closer, his one very French person to share the stars with.

 

<> 

When in doubt – beat around the bush, see what happens. If a grizzly suddenly comes out, there is no doubt you picked the wrong bush to beat.

Armie, though he doesn’t like it in other people, diligently applies the technique. And no, there are no bushes in their apartment, but there is a kitchen, so he does his beat around the kitchen where he is skulking around the island, opening drawers and cupboards, finding interesting “stuff” and annoying Tim in the process.

And Tim has a lot of stuff – you want to get on his nerves, you have your choice of gadgets, appliances, condiments and spices.

“What’s this?” Armie finds some funny-looking screw in the drawer and shows it to him.

Tim looks up from the cutting board where he was chopping bell peppers and frowns.

“It’s…” he pauses thinking, then goes to the fridge and returns with a lemon. “Here,” he takes the device from Armie, inserts it into the lemon and presses something. A spray of cold juice hits Armie’s cheek.

Armie looks at the fruit in Tim’s hand and realizes that this weird “screw” basically transformed it into a lemon spray can.

“Very ingenious,” he smiles. “Where did you buy it?”

“I didn’t,” Tim shrugs and starts chopping again. “It was here.”

“I had it?”

“You did,” Tim nods. “Though, I doubt it was ever used. It’s a handy thing, actually.”

Armie can’t help himself – he presses on the fruit again and another dose of lemon juice flies into Tim’s hair.

“I forgot to say that it’s used on food,” Tim says drily.

“Sorry,” Armie hides a smile. “It’s sort of… addictive,” he says and sprays the vegetables that Tim already prepared and neatly arranged in a square baking dish.

“You may continue, of course,” Tim glances, “but you’ll have to eat it tonight.”

“What are you making?” Armie decides to beat around some more.

“Don’t think it has a name,” Tim shrugs and starts unloading the peppers into the dish, then picks up a bowl and covers it all with grated cheese. “Santi had very pretty zucchini today, I couldn’t pass it up.”

“Santi?” Armie looks at him.

“Santiago,” Tim purses his lips thinking, takes a jar and sprinkles some dried plant on top of the cheese. “From the market,” he adds, distracted.

It needs to be said that, as soon as Tim discovered the local market, his route home has changed accordingly and now he rarely returns without some fresh – and scanned, no doubt - fruits or vegetables, whatever is good that day. Today it was zucchini, apparently.

From Santi.

Santi, Armie huffs and sends another stream of juice straight into zucchini still visible under the cheese. Does every dude with a Spanish-sounding name have to be all over my husband? San…

“Ok, ok,” Tim catches his wrist and moves his hand away from the dish. “I think you can say it now.”

“Say what?” Armie glares at him.

“What you’ve been wanting to say all along,” he takes the dish and loads it into the oven, setting the timer. “We have half an hour, and I missed the evening news anyway,” he sighs, nodding to the TV murmuring in the corner. “What is it?” Tim turns to him.

Armie is thinking, and pressing the button on his lemon helps the process somehow.

“Give it to me,” Tim snatches the fruit from him. “You’ll spray the whole kitchen.” He rips the juicer out of the lemon and throws it into the sink. “Is it about sex?”

“Sex?” Armie blinks.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, no, Tim. Nothing to… It’s not that.”

“Really?” Tim comes up to him.

“Yes, absolutely,” he nods. Tim looks at him thoughtfully and suddenly touches his right nipple that he bit last night, which makes Armie wince.

“Absolutely?”

“That was ok,” Armie catches his hand. “I didn’t stop you.”

“But you would, right? If I hurt you, you would tell me?”

“Tim, relax…”

“No, wait. This is important, too,” Tim frowns. “I mean, no amount of safe words will help if you don’t use them.”

“Alaska,” Armie rolls his eyes, “stop and listen.”

“Look at me, I’m serious now: I catch you playing martyr with me, et c’est fini – you’ll get a lifetime of polite middle-class fucking: once a week, and that if there is nothing on cable.”

“Whoa, wait…”

“Armie, I trust you,” Tim looks him dead in the eye, “you lie to me, you tolerate something you don’t want to tolerate, and I can’t trust you anymore. We clear?”

“Don’t worry, you do something I don’t like, I’ll tell you.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You promise?” Tim insists.

“Promise, promise…”

“Three times,” Tim nods. “You remember that.”

“I will,” Armie sighs. “Actually, there is something I don’t like… Well, maybe, it’s not that I don’t like it, but… I think… I’m not entirely comfortable with it.”

“Ok,” Tim nods.

It’s money. Armie is loath to bring it up again, but it seems you can’t avoid the topic while sharing a household with someone.

“Our joint account. Well, again, I like the idea, but…” he starts, then pivots to something unexpected. “You know, I was buying a bagel today? There is this place that I usually visit when I’m in that part of the city. They have amazing bagels. Lox spread with cream cheese and salmon,” he sighs dreamily. “Delicious. Just delicious.”

“Um, ok,” Tim says unsurely, clearly having no idea where it’s all going.

“I felt watched,” Armie tells him suddenly.

“When?” Tim’s eyes widen.

“When I was there, when I was buying my bagel.”

“You mean, like… CIA or something?” Tim asks worriedly and looks around with suspicion.

“No, not CIA,” Armie shakes his head.

“Did you see someone? Someone followed you?”

“No, no. I hope CIA has more pressing issues than following me around bagel shops. No, I felt watched by you,” Armie announces.

“Me?” Tim stares at him. “Trust me, I have more pressing issues, too.”

“I don’t mean physically,” Armie shakes his head, “I mean… We now have this joint account, right? So, theoretically, we can see what each of us is doing every minute of every day. Through money. We control each other through money. That’s why I felt watched, and I didn’t like it.”

“You were ok with one account,” Tim is puzzled. “When we went to the bank, you signed the papers… Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think about it then. I didn’t think I wouldn’t like the result.”

“But what result?”

“Tim, you monitor every cent. You scared me the other day.”

“What?” Tim gapes at him. “When?”

“When you were reviewing the water bill, remember?”

“Water?.. All I said was that we’re overpaying! And it _is_ scary,” Tim fumes. “It’s scary how much they are getting away with monthly. It’s state sanctioned racketeering!”

“Aha,” Armie folds his arms. “We’re overpaying, yes. A quarter of a cent is what we’re overpaying.”

“This month!” Tim cries. “But times 12? And then add 3 million households in the city. Or how about 120 million in the country? That’s…” he calculates silently. “That’s like 7 grand a month, just in New York,” he looks at Armie, appalled. “Someone has to sue these guys.”

“And what about me? Should I answer for every quarter of a cent that I spend?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I’m not being ridiculous, I’m actually worried, Tim. As I said, for better or worse, we’re controlling each other now, we’re supervising each other’s spending, and money is power, but first of all and most importantly, money is freedom. This ability to buy whatever you want and whenever you want to, without asking anyone’s permission, is the purest form of freedom there is. And with your scrupulosity, to put it mildly, I don’t feel very free. I feel watched.”

“Armie, I’m not going to supervise your intake of bagels,” Tim sighs.

“I don’t want you to supervise me at all. I’m not five and I’ve been single long enough to get used to certain things,” Armie looks at him.

“I… Look, I’m sorry that you got that impression. I mean, the water bill, it’s just for fun. I’m just…” Tim bites his lip. “I like finding these things, you know? Occupational hazard, maybe,” he smiles guiltily. “I didn’t mean for you to see it as a form of control.”

“But it is,” Armie says gently.

“Well, I’m not going to interrogate you over every nickel and dime that you spend. I don’t…” he pauses and shakes his head. “I didn’t know it looked that way.”

“Alright,” Armie nods. “But I’m still not sure how I feel about this total transparency. I guess I’ll need time to get used to it again, and I think I’ll be withdrawing money periodically to spend in cash. And I encourage you to do the same.”

“I have nothing to hide from you,” Tim replies.

“Really? And who took a side job only because he didn’t want me to know how he spent his money?”

“That was a one-time thing. I told you it would never happen again.”

“Look,” Armie sighs, “the word ‘hiding’ is wrong here. It’s not about hiding, it’s more about privacy. For example, we share this apartment, but we don’t… Like, I would never go into your pantry without asking your permission…”

“Library,” Tim corrects him immediately.

“Well, yes,” Armie glances at the plaque. “Library. _Your_ library. _Your_ space.” He frowns, “Tim, let’s admit it, we’re both used to being on our own, we both love things to be certain way, and we both need privacy, including from each other. And money is a huge part of it, like it or not,” he pauses. “Liz never did these things.”

Tim lowers his eyes.

Armie touches his cheek, “I’m not saying she was better. I’m not. She was different. Liz grew up in a wealthy family. Her parents…” he smiles ruefully. “I think in her heart of hearts she never truly believed that money could end because she never saw it happening. Even when it was tough… I remember she once spent all our savings on a new bag. She did. She liked it, so she bought it, rent be damned.

“And you’re used to stretching a hundred bucks for a week. I get it. I’m fine with it. If anything, I’m closer to this worldview, because when my father left… I know how to darn a ripped t-shirt is all I’m saying. But I don’t want to be questioned about every ten bucks that I spend. If I don’t tell you what I bought with it, it’s because I don’t want to tell you, and I need you to accept it. No tantrums at the end of the month, or whenever it is that you’re reviewing the budget, ok?” Armie looks at him carefully, “I need you to trust me. I will trust you, too. And trust is always blind, there is no other kind.”     

“It’s mostly your money, anyway,” Tim shrugs.

Armie groans. “The key word here wasn’t money, the key word w…”

“Privacy.”

“And?”

“Who would spend rent money on a bag?” Tim explodes. “How could you tolerate this?”

“Because if I couldn’t or didn’t want to, the door was always open,” Armies says simply. “But I tried, and with time it got better.”

Tim glances at the door. “Ok,” he sighs. “I’ll try, too.”

“Wonderful,” Armie smiles. “So we won’t have another row when you see what I bought for Nick?” he asks and watches for Tim’s reaction.

“Is it a bag?” Tim growls.

“No,” Armie chuckles, “it was a headset.”

“This Santini…” Tim starts but is interrupted by the timer ringing. “Dinner in 20 minutes,” he sighs.

“Tim?”

“Privacy, trust, freedom,” Tim recites tiredly. “Expensive bags, no questions.”

“More or less,” Armie replies drily.

“I’d _never_ marry a rich chick.”

“Don’t worry, you’re quite safe for now.”

“And the water,” Tim’s eyes narrow, “we’re overpaying.”

“But you love me enough to tolerate it,” Armie informs him.

“Yes, I do,” Tim nods sadly.

“Thank you,” Armie kisses him. “Smells delicious, by the way,” he nods to the oven.

“Of course, it does,” Tim shrugs. “It’s French.”

 

<> 

“Surprise!”

Armie almost falls on his technically naked ass out of fright, then grips the towel and glares at Tim.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

Legitimate question, concerning the circumstances. You open the bathroom door, you don’t expect your spouse to pop out of nowhere and scream.

“Let me…” he tries to move Tim aside. Tim doesn’t wish to be moved. Tim grins, the sort of grin fairy-tale characters have a glimpse of before the scary part starts.

“What do you want?” Armie adjusts the towel again.

Something flashes in Tim’s raised hand. Armie ignores it. Something approaches his nose. He pushes Tim’s hand away, then pauses, then looks, then…

“How?” he whispers, eyes growing huge.

“Big city,” Tim smirks, “full of useful people.”

“You sold your…”

“My ass for that?” Tim smiles. “Yes. And as they say, eye for an eye, ass for an ass…”

“It’s not what they say…” Armie mumbles, not able to look away from the piece of paper in Tim’s hand.

“But that’s what they mean,” Tim licks his lips.

“Then it’s not a gift?” Armie glances at him.

“It is,” Tim nods, “it is, but you should know better – gifts rarely come free of charge. So?”

Armie looks at the tickets. “Anything.”

“Well, you’re on the right track, at least.”

“What do you want?” he asks suspiciously.

“You said anything.”

“I meant anything within reason.”

“By your standards or mine?”

“Your standards are Paleolithic,” Armie rolls his eyes, “I know you.”

“Meaning?”

“Have you read Geneva Conventions?”

“Have you?”

Armie glares at him.

“It covers combat, not battle of the sexes, you know?” Tim says and oh so unintentionally raises his arm to lean against the door frame, putting the tickets right in front of Armie’s nose again.

“I want my rights,” Armie swallows.

“What rights?”

“To say no at any moment.”

Tim seems to thinks about it. “Granted.”

Armie goes for the tickets and they quickly disappear.

“Tim…”

“Only three nights in New York,” Tim sighs, “farewell tour, the lead is a legend and the legend is fading…”

“Tim…”

“Tickets sold out within three hours. Six months ago.”

“Tim…”

“Seats aren’t too shabby.”

“I won’t agree to anything blindly,” Armie warns.

“No blindfolds? Easy,” Tim smiles, then leans closer as if going for a kiss, but instead dives lower and licks a drop of water from Armie’s chest. “I just want a thank you,” he says innocently. “It’s polite to say thank you when you receive a gift.”

“You need to promise that you’ll be humane,” Armie shivers.

“What about _you be you_?”

“Still applicable but… Tim, I’m wet!” he cries when he feels the tickets touching his knee and slowly moving up, up, up, along the slit in the towel.

“I know,” Tim says, all compassion.

“Fine!” Armie gives up. “Fine! I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

“Whatever it is?”

“Whatever it is,” Armie sighs.

“You sure?”

“No. Already regretting it.”

“Your bravery is enviable,” Tim grabs the back of his neck and draws him closer for a kiss. “Meet me in the bedroom in ten minutes,” he whispers. “Stay wet.”

 

<> 

During the next week Armie watches and guards the tickets with as much ardor as Tim dedicates to the beard. His thank you is still a mystery to him, and he starts to believe that with all the blowjobs happening lately he might be in the clear now. Though, given the fact that he’d never in a million years get those tickets without Tim, he is ready to extend the credit to him for a month or even two.

It’s indeed a rare treat, the opera they are going to. That Tim found out about it, without Armie mentioning it even once, that he was willing to go as far as he did to give Armie this present, means a lot. And Armie is showing his gratitude tirelessly, as it seems to him.

As a result, when the day finally arrives, he’s forgotten all about his hasty bathroom promises and is happily watching himself in the mirror: embroidered lapels – check, giddy smile – check, breathtaking naïveté – yeah, that too.

“You’re edible, sugar,” Tim comes up behind him. “You make my head spin. Now get on the bed, on all fours for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Payback time,” Tim pats his shoulder. “On the bed.”

“The cab will be here in ten minutes,” Armie glances at his watch.

“Yes,” Tim nods, “so hurry up.”

“Really?” Armie looks at him, exasperated. “Is that it? You want a quickie? We’ll get back, do what you…”

“I didn’t say anything about a quickie. I said get on the bed.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see,” Tim winks. “Actually, no, you won’t, but you’ll know, trust me. Get on the bed.”

In a movie someone would flash a gun in his waistband right now - Tim makes a show of checking his inner jacket pockets and Armie gets a glimpse of the tickets in the mirror.

Fuck, I’ve gone far enough, he decides, I can’t lose it now.

He looks at the bed, looks at Tim in the mirror, shakes his head, but goes.

“From your side,” Tim maneuvers him.

It’s really weird, it’s really weird, it’s rea…

“Look ahead,” Tim says from behind.

Done. Ok.

It’s really…

His trousers are gone, his underwear follows…

Armie starts to turn his head and receives a sharp slap on his derriere.

“Ahead, look ahead,” Tim says sternly.

And then he leaves.

Armie opens his mouth, but there is no one to ask, “What the hell am I doing, embroidered lapels and bare ass, on this fine evening?”

I’ll count to ten, he tells to himself, after ten it’s humiliating, up to ten… I can wait up to ten.

He reaches 22 - panic zone officially - when Tim strolls back, sits on the bed facing him and calmly puts a bottle of lube right under Armie’s nose. Then he adds the hedgehog.

Armie looks at it incredulously, then raises his eyes, “Are you nuts?”

“Time to unleash this thing,” Tim pats his cheek. “Wild animals shouldn’t be caged.”

“We don’t have time!”

“We do.”

“Tim, please…”

“You can say no,” Tim reminds him.

“Why tonight?”

“Why not?”

“Tim…”

“Yes, dear.”

“Timothée…”

“Ah,” Tim sighs, “three months married - you still can’t pronounce it.”

“I knew I should’ve gone for someone simpler - no John Smith would do that to me,” Armie grumbles.

“Nah,” Tim lovingly strokes his beard, “you crave sophistication. Bare ass and a tuxedo – now, that’s class for you.”

“It’s not a tuxedo,” Armie glares at him. “If you read more, you’d know that.”

Tim inspects his nails. Tim waits. Tim, it looks like, has all the time in the world.  

“It’s not the time…” Armie pleads.

“Say no,” Tim shrugs.

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll go to the opera,” Tim takes the tickets and slides them into Armie’s inner pocket.

“Just like that?” Armie frowns.

“Just like that.”

Armie glances at his watch. “Eight minutes,” he bites his lip, “I could blow you.” He looks at Tim hopefully.

“Intriguing,” Tim agrees.

“But?”

“But no,” Tim says sadly. “Afterwards you’re welcome, though.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Armie cries.

“I’m not doing anything.”

Which is even more insulting for being true.

“Tim, I’m grateful to you, I’m very grateful. It’s an incredible gift. I couldn’t dream of something like that. It was so thoughtful, so generous. You’re the best.”

“Ah, you’re so sweet,” Tim smiles. “I love you, too.”

Armie wants to cry, instead he puts his forehead on Tim’s shoulder.

“Please…” he whispers.

“What, darling?” Tim strokes his head lovingly. “What is it?”

“I can’t do this!” Armie’s voice is full of unshed tears.

“Ok,” Tim kisses his temple. “It’s ok.”

“My ass is getting cold…”

“What a shame,” Tim sighs.

“We can do it at home. Why in the opera?” Armie looks at him.

“It’s fun,” Tim smiles.

Armie groans. “Do you believe in… Are you religious?”

“Not particularly.”

“Me neither,” he confesses. “I believe in karma, though.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I bought this thing on sale…”

“Smart,” Tim nods.

“I thought so, too,” he sighs. “Tim?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What if it’s noisy?”

“No,” Tim cups his chin in his hand, “it’s very quiet. I tested it.”

Armie blinks. “You… tested it?”

“Yes, on my hand.” Tim looks at him tenderly, “It’s very soft, a bit tickly. It won’t scratch. You’ll like it, you like when I stay inside you afterwards, this will be the same. It’s just wider, will stretch you a bit. And I did some reading – people say great things. I didn’t find anything alarming. It won’t hurt you. If it does, I’ll crush those motherfuckers who made it. I promise.”

“You will?”

“I will,” Tim whispers. “Made in China, but legal address is in New York. I’ll burn them to the ground.”

“I like when you talk like that,” Armie sighs, “I know I shouldn’t but I like it.”

“It’s normal. You expect your alpha to protect you. I’m your alpha. I will,” Tim kisses him softly. “Say no. I’ll be disappointed, but fuck it. Fuck it, if I’m disappointed. Who cares?”

“I do,” Armie admits.

“I won’t die from disappointment,” Tim says gently.

Armie looks at him for a long moment. “It’s just… I’ve never done such a thing in my life,” his head returns on Tim’s shoulder. “I only read about it…”

“About sex toys?” Tim smiles.

“No, about… I guess, about people doing stupid stuff… for fun,” Armie whispers.

“Ah, we’ll do a lot of stupid stuff,” Tim draws him closer. “We never had a pillow fight, for example. We should. And we’ll ride an air balloon, and go skinny dipping, and eat magic mushrooms. Plus, of course, a cross-country road trip: New York to California - we’ll stop in Vegas, renew our vows, gamble away our savings, get drunk on margaritas and head for Hollywood, only to wake up in Tijuana not knowing how we got there or when,” he sighs wistfully. “It’s just one life. I don’t believe there is a sequel, but if so, the parties must be dreadful and booze watered down. This, right here, is the only time to be crazy, the only time to lose your head, the only time to waste on foolishness,” he pecks Armie’s cheek and starts moving. “Alright. Get up. Our cab is almost here.”

“No, wait,” Armie stops him.

“Armie, you promised you wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want,” Tim reminds him.  

“There are bathrooms there. If it’s not… I’ll pull it out, if it’s, um, too much.”

“You sure?”

“No,” Armie smiles, “already regretting it.”

 

<> 

He does.

He regrets it as soon as they get in the taxi and he has to squirm over every bump in the road, which, given the ever-growing NYC public debt, is uneven enough for you to get fucked, even without a hedgehog in your ass. They get stuck on 63rd and it takes forever to get to Madison, by which point Armie isn’t sure what he fears more – to be late and miss the performance of the century or Tim’s hand disappearing in his pocket to get to remote control.

What possessed him to say yes?

Love?

Nah, love hisses, don’t put this stupidity on me. Did you, humans, run out of scapegoats, or what? Love, love, nothing to do with love, just lack of brains and sudden adventurousness, that lethal combination.

What else will you stuff and where?

No, not love, Armie agrees. It’s you, he glares at Tim comfortably sitting beside him. Yes, it’s you! Sweet-talked me into marriage, sweet-talked me into this… Every sucker finds his con man sooner or later, and I managed to fall for one, brought him in my home… In my home! In my bedroom where my wife slept! Where he now comes and stuffs me with his toys! In my home…

Divorce won’t help, I need to evacuate from this planet. It’s becoming a shitty place anyway.

It’s livelier on 66th, so Armie forgives his spouse for a couple of blocks, until they run over something, and it’s hell again, fresh squirming hell.

There’s insurance, he remembers. I could now strangle him without one, but that’s a nice bonus. I deserve every penny, every quarter of a cent.

When did my life become this? How? I must have slaughtered someone gruesomely in my previous one to get _him_ in this…

“Almost there,” Tim says sweetly. “You alright?”

Armie turns to the window.

To Mars! To Mars and no stops for gas either! Who needs air? At least my ass will be safe…

Finally, they arrive.

Met Opera is fucking glorious. White travertine and bronze, its arched façade is breathing with light strong enough to transform glass into gold in early darkness. A circle of illuminated fountains, brilliant like boiling diamonds, dance on the plaza, blinking and repeating in countless real jewels paraded around.

Armie looks at visibly nervous Tim, who is desperately trying to tame his unruly curls in the evening breeze, and decides to take pity on him.

“You look very nice,” he squeezes his hand lightly. “Let’s go.”

His alpha, all in black for the occasion, seems lost in the crowd of tuxedos and brocaded bosoms. Armie remembers him chatting with the girl in the supermarket and suddenly knows that he’ll miss it, this simplicity that will be lost to time, that’s miraculously survived past sixteen.

“Let’s go,” he whispers again.

Inside, they stop for a moment at the bottom of the curved white staircase that resembles a cascade of blood with its crimson carpet. Armie checks the tickets again and sees the same thing he saw a week ago – Tim got them seats in parterre, second box from the stage. Last time he was here, it was back at the orchestra level and binoculars were a must. Now, you can stretch your hand and touch one of the singers, it seems.

What kind of “useful people” helped Tim to get these tickets?

Armie isn’t so naïve as to think that it was those “farmers.” No, they were just the beginning of a long chain. _I’ll burn them to the ground,_ he remembers now and no longer takes it as a joke. His little alpha is growing up, and he is going to be a force to be reckoned with. One day he’ll have this city by the balls, and Armie knows how strong his grip is.

Tim is a carnivore. The blood will out.

Standing here, black profile on crimson and gold, he resembles a dark prince observing the realm from a balcony of his castle.

What is he seeing? Armie asks himself and recognizes that he knows the answer. What Tim is seeing is what any ambitious person sees anywhere and everywhere – opportunity.

Armie follows his eyes and finds two men in conversation, casually leaning on the rails of the box right across the auditorium. He has no idea who they are, but judging by the intensity of Tim’s gaze, his alpha knows them very well.

And here again Armie sees a glimpse of the future – in the middle of second act, Tim quietly excusing himself and leaving for a short while. Another deal would be struck in the hallway, information exchanged, decisions made, someone’s sins forgiven as a favor. A favor, that stable currency of Tim’s realm. Because whenever and however history is made in general, but political history is made in the hallways, between the people you never see on the front pages, the real power brokers, quiet and ruthless, whose reach is wide and memory perfect.

The club is exclusive, the access is coveted, the price is being useful. How many problems can you make disappear? How many can you create for someone? It’s not about money. It’s who you can say “fuck you” to and who _can’t_ say “fuck you” to you. Street power is the first, real one is the second.

This is what Tim sees.

His future.

He has the gravity, Armie thinks, that furious gravity of big stars that rearranges lesser planets and puts them in motion.

Tim is an alpha. There will be blood.

Roads to thrones are all red.

“You ok?” Tim whispers, because the lights start to dim.

“Yes,” Armie nods, “just thinking…”

“Nice seats,” Tim smirks. “Cushy.”

Armie ignores him. “What’s this?” he asks when Tim gets some papers from his inner pocket and unfolds them on his lap.

“Translation.”

“Tim, you can read it later,” Armie clicks his tongue in frustration. “Listen.”

“I want to know the plot. I don’t understand Italian.”

“I don’t understand it either. Listen.”

“Listen to wh…”

“Gentlemen, please,” the woman from the seat above shushes them.

“I apologize,” Armie mutters and turns to the stage, where the curtain is rising slowly.

The first applause is enthusiastic but not earth-shattering. Armie knows whom everybody is waiting for. That someone who sold the tickets in three hours. That someone who by the end of the first act will make everyone lean forward, hold their breaths for a second, make them turn to each other and whisper urgently:

“That’s her?”

“It is,” Armie replies, exhaling.

Yes, it is. Finally.

Antonia Vasari.

The prodigy.

The legend.

The whore.

Sharp defined brows and prominent cheekbones, that imperfect pointy nose half the continent went crazy about and dark mocking eyes, used to look down on sold out theaters. The queen and her long shadow – the triumphs, the lovers, the divorces, the feuds.

He found her on the street, they said. Turned her 16 overnight. Came for the legs, stayed for the lungs. He was a pimp, they said. _Puttaniere._ It doesn’t matter what he was. It doesn’t matter that he loved her.

He’d never punch her in the stomach. She’d cook his calamari.

He’d pay for her lessons. She’d fuck him for free.

His throat cut with a fish knife, she’d get him a plot at dei Protestanti, beside the best and the brightest sinners of yore. He’d know how to die. She’d know how to be grateful.

These things matter.

Not his name, not hers.

Calogera Schiazza is nothing, all that’s left is Antonia Vasari.

The woman whose husbands would write memoirs about her, and not vice versa. Whose last one would choke her - three years of silence, three years of coughing blood. Then the return. Against all odds, in the face of all doubts. _You can’t pray away the gift._

Another scandal. Diamond bracelet from a married president. Luxury car from a married prince. Her face on the cover drowning in cigarette smoke. _I have my vices, leave them to me._ Another lover. Younger. Too young, according to some. He’d kill himself a year later, and the mother would sue _her_ , even though the affair lasted barely a month.

Her only child going into rehab. Her favorite horse breaking its leg. Her father stealing from her. _Destiny isn’t a blessing, destiny is to be survived._ Milan, outraged and still applauding; Paris, whispering _La chiene_ and crying _bravo_ ; New York, people sleeping on sidewalks to get a ticket. Wars, protests, assassinations, madness and glamour of the century. Her shoulders in _Playboy,_ her name in Parliament, her soprano from helicopters over burning villages. The gilt, the guilt, the voice. _Look your best at funerals, especially your own._

She is standing - center stage, Met Opera – saying goodbye, looking her best; she’s had enough. The spotlight strikes and ignites the diamonds; her diamonds, the only tears her public ever saw.

The gravity, Armie thinks again, that demonic gravity… You have to ascend this stage. You have to earn it, this house of blood and gold.

The roads disperse and run back to cross again and intertwine into meridian of destiny – tonight she is the whore, camellias shimmer on her bodice. She’s too old, but none could do it better: others memorized the words, others thought you could be taught this – she knows the price of the libretto, she knows it’s always paid in flesh.

She smiles. Is she remembering him and his calamari? Is she remembering that foolish prince? So many of them, so many… But she won’t survive the third act herself, so it doesn’t matter. And maybe that’s why the smile – because nothing matters in the end, because it’s over.

On stage, she gives him everything, he repays with money. His tenor burns with indignation and hurt pride. He is killing her, her lover, but she knows how to die - she’ll forgive him, and he’ll never recover.

A glance in the auditorium again. The pause is rehearsed, but the blow will be real: _never pick up the gun, if you don’t mean to use it, bedduzza._

She knows.

Armie realizes that this is one of those moments that you, already 80 and irrelevant, still remember and describe over and over to an audience that can’t possibly understand, but you try nevertheless: I was there, when Vasari sang her last, I was there…

And the voice comes. From the deep, from the darkest places and into the stars. A billion needles piercing you simultaneously at the speed of light. Starting as a shiver, turning into an earthquake. Your fingertips absorb its electricity, and the heart shrinks for a briefest of moments, stops and shudders, breaking into a racing pulse, thrashing around its ribcage prison.

No need for a plastic toy up your bum, you only need ears. You only need the courage to meet this blade of a voice and let it slice you. The words in unfamiliar language bringing up the howl buried in your chest probably for years, the howl of pain and rapture, too intimate to be translated and too simple to be misunderstood.

He grabs Tim’s hand. He wants to remember. He wants them both to feel it as one – communicating vessels that trapped a fireball and tremble with its wild energy.

The glass is fragile, the glass is showing cracks… Let it all burn… Let loose the fire…

No way to take it with you, you can only remember.

Remember, she is singing her last.

Third act is ending. Life’s finished. Love’s punished. Lover’s gone. You don’t need translation - death is a polyglot: you’ll know who’s calling, you’ll know what’s coming.

She is standing – center stage, Met Opera – she is singing, and the chandeliers quiver, and palms sweat.

Ignite the sky with your goodbye. Make him remember. Make him weep. Make your camellias burn his fingers…

Armie closes his eyes. He doesn’t know when Tim pressed the button. He doesn’t think it matters now. Nothing matters in the end.

Little death hurts only a little.

 

<> 

The door opens. He is thrown inside, taken by the lapels and practically carried along the hallway.

“The light…” Armie manages to say.

“Fuck the light,” Tim growls and presses him into the wall.

“Don’t rip the shirt,” he gasps a second later.

“Fuck th…”

His jacket is gone

“What is?..” he stumbles into something.

“Couch…” Tim pushes with his hand and propels them into another wall. “Down,” he says briskly.

“N-no…” Armie breathes heavily, “the floor… not again…”

“Fuck… turn around,” Tim grabs his shoulder and turns him to the wall.

“Easy… please…”

“Relax… I’m pulling it out…”

“Ohhh…” a sigh of relief. “Ahhh!” Tim bites his ass. “Wait!” Armie cries.

“What?” Tim asks from somewhere below the belt.

“The bed… please…” Armie whispers, nose to the wall.

“Fine!” a slap on the ass for the road.

The movement continues. Armie can’t see much of anything, least of all Tim, who is darker than darkness in his black suit. He is dragged again, again by the lapels. He is thrown again, again through the door.

He falls on something and doesn’t have much time to recognize it as bed, before the darkness descends, straight on him and awfully horny.

In the short aftermath he loses his pants, his boxers, his shirt. In return he gets a handful of bony ass and a bite on his shoulder.

“Take off your socks.”

“You can’t even see them!” Tim protests.

“I _know_ they are there.”

“Well, hell…” Tim moves away and returns quickly. “Open up now.”

“Wait, did we lock the door?”

“There was a click.”

“You sure?” Armie blinks trying to see him clearer.

“I’m sure I won’t go and check now. Relax,” Tim lifts his knee. “Shhh, shhh… Oh, yes… Fuck… You’re…” Unclear. “Best ass on Manhattan.” Slap, exclamation point. “May I come on your face?” Big question mark.

What can you say to that, honestly?

Translate from Timspeak and you’ll find an “I love you” buried there somewhere, deep but still.

“Talk about shot in the dark,” Armie grumbles.

“I can see you. I won’t miss.”

“No,” he decides, “not with this beard. I’ll never get it all off.”

“On your chest then?”

Sigh. “Ok, on the chest.”

Won’t be easy to get it off either…

“And no shower tonight,” Tim says as if reading his mind.

“No shower?”

“No,” Tim rubs his chest. “Want you to have it still, when I take you in the morning.”

“Territory?”

“Yes, territory,” Tim growls. “Mine.”

Armie’s hands slide over his chest, pale and luminous in the moonlight.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

“Alphas don’t have to be beautiful…”

“They have to be strong,” he smiles.

“Yes.”

“You’re strong, too.”

“Well, let’s see,” Tim chuckles.

“Tim, what are?.. Oh, no… Tim, Tim, Tim, Ti… Ahhhhh… Fuck!”

Armie can see a lot by now, he wishes he didn’t. What he discerns is Tim’s hand on his ankle and his ankle on Tim’s shoulder.

“Something snapped I think,” Tim says thoughtfully.

“You lost your mind?” Armie cries

“Shhh, shhh, the center holds,” Tim squeezes his ankle soothingly. “Now the other leg… Just a bit…”

“Don’t you shhh me! You’ll burn in hell for this!”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. Someone once threatened to start running in the morning. Where?”

“Running?” Armie sputters. “I’m lucky if I can walk tomorrow!”

“Finally, a compliment!” Tim smiles.

“Wasn’t a compliment… No, no, no! What are you doing? Stay where you are! Vertical, stay as vertical as you can. Lean back, in fact.”

“Ok?”

“No!”

“I won’t have leverage if I lean further.”

“Fine…” Armie sighs. “Oh!”

“Yes,” Tim nods. “Good angle.”

“My knees hurt!”

“You know, you can shave your ankles. I will allow it.”

Armie narrows his eyes. “I could strangle you like that. Have you thought about it?”

“Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing?!”

Armie ignores his knees and Tim’s vociferous protests, locks his legs and slowly bends his alpha.

“Now what?” Tim asks, his nose an inch or two away from Armie’s now.

“A lesson,” Armie squeezes a bit.

“Hurry,” Tim fights the vice around his neck. “I’ll faint soon…”

“Don’t fuck with old dudes,” Armie smiles. “We survived disco and shoulder pads, we can survive you, too.”

“You weren’t even alive for the disco!”

“I witnessed the reconstruction,” Armie scowls. “Not the best time in the South.”

“Alright,” Tim gasps. “Alright!”

Armie watches some more, then starts unbending him.

“I’ll have bruises on my neck tomorrow,” Tim grabs his ankles again.

“I have bruises on my dignity now,” Armie replies and gets comfortable.

“Put your hands up, or I’ll ram your head into the headboard.”

“One more thing,” Armie grabs the headboard.

“What?” Tim looks at him fearfully.

“Find your socks before you come,” Armie tells him sweetly. “My chest and my ass are off limits tonight. Alaska.”

Darkness sighs. “I love you, sugar.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU!
> 
> To be continued... (soon)


	14. Chapter 14

He can walk, it’s not that bad. Running a marathon is unlikely, but it’s not like he was chomping at the bit anyway.  Tim’s neck looks fine, too, if slightly thinner. But he manages breathing, what more does he want? Swallow food? Greedy, aren’t we?

Yes, overall, marriage is a success, Armie decides while talking to Nicole who called to ask how their night at the opera went.

“It was unforgettable,” he smiles. “Maybe the best gift I ever received. Your son, when he wants to, has great taste.”

“Did he like it? He isn’t very musical, I’m afraid,” Nicole sighs.

“He did his best,” Armie chuckles. “You wanted him to play the piano, right?” he remembers.

“Oh, don’t remind me,” she groans. “I don’t know what was going through my head when I suggested it. We can’t help being optimistic about our children, I guess…”

“He hated it?”

“He did, but not as much as his poor teacher,” Nicole says. “I remember asking him about Timmy’s progress. ‘Excellent, ma’am. Your son moves further and further away from music with every lesson. I don’t think the instrument can catch up.’ And that was it.”

“He can hum, though,” Armie points out.

“Yes, as long as his mouth is closed, he’s harmless,” Nicole laughs.  

If you only knew… Armie rubs his freshly bitten nipple. “How are you all?” he asks.

“Oh, fine. We’re fine. Lina’s friend is living with us now,” she says and Armie remembers that sun-kissed six-pack on a towel, though, he has difficulty with the face,. But then, who’d care about the face with a midsection like that?

“Really?” he smiles. “What happened?”

“Well, he… had a disagreement with his landlord,” Nicole says diplomatically.

_Ran out of money,_ Armie translates.

“Nice guy?” he asks.

“Oh, yes, yes. Likes to eat, plays ukulele… I like him,” she replies and adds sadly, “Marc is counting silverware every morning.”

Armie chuckles. “Will he stay long?”

“No, I don’t think so. I suspect my daughter is getting tired of this domesticity already. And ukulele is fine, but… all in moderation,” she sighs.

They’ve barely said goodbye, when Tim appears at the door of his study.

“Close your eyes,” he orders mysteriously.

Armie hesitates, but does as told. Who knows, maybe another present is coming? He deserves another present, he thinks.  Modesty is overrated.

Instead he gets something else.

“Wha… what is it?” he opens his eyes, surprised, and finds that the world has changed while he wasn’t looking – it’s all blurry and out of shape, including his husband who is suddenly crooked and chubby.

“Hot as hell,” Tim declares. “Downright sinful.”

“Why am I wearing them?” Armie takes off the glasses and looks at them curiously.

“Because you’re a teacher,” Tim smiles, “fucked your eyes on grading papers, probably.”

“A teacher?” Armie looks at him.

“Statistics teacher,” Tim winks and strokes his cheek. “We’ve achieved the right beard size.”

“Statistics teacher,” Armie repeats. “Are we?..”

“We are. We certainly are.”

“Where did you get these?” he turns the glasses in his hand.

“Borrowed from a coworker,” Tim shrugs.

“For a roleplay?” Armie looks at him aghast.

“It’s a spare, she doesn’t mind.”

“So she knows.”

“I think she figured it out,” Tim doesn’t sound worried.

“And you’re ok with it?” Armie shakes his head. “Now your colleagues think that your sex life includes grandma glasses.”

“Now my colleagues _know_ that I have one,” Tim folds his arms.

“And that was part of the plan, I suspect,” Armie remarks drily.

“Oh, come on!” Tim rolls his eyes. “I caught Lester twerking in his office the other day – no one died. Though, we both wanted to,” he shudders. “Let’s go,” he yanks Armie from his chair.

“Where?”

“We need to dress you.”

“I’m dressed,” Armie protests.

“No, no, no,” Tim glances at him over his shoulder, “your glorious prototype wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a t-shirt. Old codger had principles.”

“How old am I?”

“Fortysomething, I think.”

“An old codger to you,” Armie sighs.

“Right, let’s feel sorry for yourself, in the middle of sexual roleplay. That’s exactly the time,” Tim rolls his eyes and leads him to the bedroom. “Show me,” he orders, when they stop in front of the closet.

Armie slides open his half and steps away.

“Mhm,” Tim starts perusing the hangers.

“I like this jacket,” Armie pulls one by the sleeve.

“No.”

“This one?”

“No.”

“What color?”

“Gray is fine.”

“What gray?”

“What do you mean?” Tim frowns.

“It has many shades.”

“Gray is gray, Armie,” Tim is frustrated that he has to point it out. “You have nothing!” he looks at him accusingly. “All this is useless.”

“All my suits are tailor-made,” Armie’s eyes narrow.

“Do you know how much a teacher makes?” Tim looks at him. “Tailor-made! Show me…” suddenly he stops. “Aha! This!” he dives into the closet and returns with a trophy.

“Gods help me,” Armie whispers. “I thought I burned it…”

“It’s perfect,” Tim nods.

“Tim, I…” Armie’s heart shrinks painfully from just one look at a sweater vest in Tim’s hands. Light sandy-brown, it’s exactly the type of thing you wear if your goal is to merge with the sofa upholstery and never be found again.

Armie can admit that he has a couple of skeletons in his closet, but he forgot he still had this monstrosity.

“Tim…”

“You’ll wear it,” Tim pats his shoulder. “You’re smart: you ponder over theorems of probability and your cat’s name is Fermat - you don’t have time to waste on fashion.”

“What am I doing stuck in high school, if I’m so smart?” Armie grumbles.

“You care about future generations,” Tim smiles. “Do you have a yellow shirt? Like dirty yellow?”

“Luckily, no.”

“Light green?”

“Yes,” Armie replies cautiously.

“Ok, that’s good,” Tim nods when Armie gives him the shirt.

“No,” Armie shakes his head, “no human being would pair this with this.”

“You would,” Tim replies simply.

“Hey, stop, that’s my underwear!”

“I know,” Tim grins. “They are meant for stardom,” he fishes out Armie’s checkered boxers. “I love this thing,” he sniffs them. “Smells like home.”

“Give it to me!” Armie snatches them from him immediately. Another thing he should have burned but didn’t.  

 

<> 

“You were really attracted to this?” he asks later, looking at himself in the mirror.

“Yes, I was,” Tim walks around him and scans him from top to bottom. “I am.”

“It’s 100% wool,” Armie tugs at the vest. “I’m getting hot already.”

“Don’t worry you won’t wear it for long.”

“Right, about that… Do we have a script?”

“Oh, I have tons of ideas,” Tim’s eyes twinkle, “but we’ll play it by ear, I guess.”

“I don’t think I can act,” Armie worries. “Actually, I know I can’t - my last part was a bunny, in kindergarten.”

“I’m sure you nailed it.”

“I don’t think so. There must be a reason why it was my last performance.”

“Look, you be you here,” Tim stops in front of him and grabs his shoulders. “If there is ever a time to be you, it’s now. As yourself, you’re incomparable. Now go and wait for me in your study. Go.”

“I don’t know anything about statistics, Tim.”

“You think guys in porn know anything about plumbing?” Tim rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t stop them.”

Armie nods and goes to the door, then stops suddenly.

“What breed is my cat?”

“What?”

“You said I have a cat,” Armie reminds him.

“Forget about the cat,” Tim sighs. “I never saw it, I have no idea what it was. Maybe it was a dog.”

“No, that’s important. Cat people and dog people are different.”

“You’re cat people, Armie, take my word for it. You’re so cat, you might as well be sprouting whiskers.”

Armie nods distractedly and turns to go. He stops again.

“Do we have to do it in daylight?”

“Yes,” Tim replies exasperated, “there is no other way.”

“Why?”

“I went to school in daylight.”

“Right… right…” Armie bites his lip.

“Armie,” Tim sighs, “you were born for this part, cat or no cat. You’re just smart enough to get invited to some professor’s house and just clueless enough to get seduced by his adolescent son over the weekend. I snatched you up in time, sugar. One more year and you’d have talked yourself into marrying Mrs. Clarence out of some misguided chivalry.

“I love you to pieces. Go. Sit at your desk, wait for me, read some smut for inspiration, if you want.” Tim comes up to him and strokes his cheek, “They don’t give awards for roleplay, there’s no one to judge you. It’s another stupid thing that people do for fun. If we suck at it, who the fuck cares? We’ll find something else.”

Armie nods.

“Careful with the glasses,” Tim smiles. “One arm was broken.”

Armie opens his mouth…

“Go,” Tim says emphatically.

 

<> 

Armie’s study is in reality Liz’s former yoga room that he’d carefully furnished for her over the years. In the past an airy space with pastel blue walls and lots of craftily arranged lighting features, overnight it turned into a sad empty second bedroom, when she moved out.

He didn’t know what to do with it at first. How many rooms to be alone do you need when you live alone? He didn’t have enough books to transform it into a real library, he wasn’t really into yoga, he didn’t have kids and he was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any overnight guests. So he simply closed the door and ignored the place, patiently teaching himself not to miss the sounds of dulcimer that Liz used to play during her sessions.

Then he caught the flu and, while working at the kitchen table, was clumsy enough to spill coffee on one of the blueprints. So, maybe he needed a home office, after all? Anyway, it was better than keep that room aimless. He felt that emptiness behind the door every time he passed it on the way to the bathroom – a space that lost its purpose. Blank spot. Wrong. Unnatural. Cold. A part of his home infected with void. Yes, maybe he needed a home office. Anything was better nothing.

So he bought a broad desk, added two shelving units along the walls and then, running out of inspiration - cobbler’s children have no shoes, it’s true – acquired a potted yucca to cover the remaining empty corner.

Armie has no idea if he has a green thumb - or any talent for it at all - but he is apparently on first-name basis with yuccas, because the thing has since grown robustly and is currently taller than Tim, which his husband quietly hates. What to do when it reaches the ceiling, Armie hasn’t decided. He hopes it will have the decency to just stop. He believes in inner goodness of plants.

And now he is sitting at his broad desk, looking at his massive yucca and waiting. Should he do something? Read? Write?

What do teachers do after classes? Prepare for more classes? Gossip? Cry over paycheck? Hope the snowstorm will shut down the school?

He doesn’t have smut to read. He has provocative modern literature, but that’s Literature. It’s not supposed to titillate, though it often does, and publishers know and use it very well, recognizing that that’s the only reason why most of the people bother to buy it. But Armie isn’t most people – most people will tell you they aren’t most people – so he’ll maintain until his last breath that it was acquired for art’s sake.

Bawdy poetry, too. Folklore. Research.

What?

Well, he also has an album of 18th century nudes, but he suspects it won’t prepare him for what’s coming.

So he sits at his desk, shuffles color scales, trying to look busy and smart, and attempts to understand his character, who loves cats and shtups students. Delightful guy he must be. Industrious.

I’d never do that, Armie nods to himself, ever.

Then the door opens.

Maybe Armie, who was playing with the glasses all this time, has some acting talent after all or maybe the transformation techniques weren’t all used up on that bunny, because as soon as the door opens and he sees…

He blinks.

Then, all in character or something, he puts the glasses on, forgetting that his vision doesn’t need the help of so many diopters as yet and turning Tim into a vaguely perceived shapeless goo, blue-striped for some reason.    

Tim has some difficulty with looking twenty-four, and none with travelling backwards: skinny frame, disheveled hair, a bag across stooped shoulders, striped tee with denim overshirt, tight black jeans and red sneakers, blushing cheeks, nervous hands, a friendship bracelet on one wrist…

Fuck, I hope he’s at least a sophomore, Armie thinks.

“Mr. Hammer?” Tim glances at him tentatively and immediately lowers his eyes.

“Uhm…”

And what? What would his prototype do?

Quit, he thinks, looking at those cheeks again. If you know what’s best for you, quit teaching high school. Flesh is weak, law is clear… Quit. Quit and repent. Go live by the pond, ponds are good for pondering.

“Can I talk to you? I wanted to ask you something,” Tim looks at him again. “May I come in?” his hand nervously runs through his hair.

“I, well…” Armie stretches his collar. “Um, yes, come… um, come in. Of course.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Tim sighs.

“That’s ok,” Armie straightens in his chair. “Come in, please.”

Tim nods, looks around curiously, as if he’s never been here before, comes up and props himself on the edge of the desk. Armie rolls his chair back a little, just to be on the safe side. Tim frowns, tugs at his bracelet, then suddenly turns and stares at Armie.

The hell of it is that no matter what sneakers or what level of dishevelment, in those eyes Armie sees his alpha, and his alpha watching you like that – all knowledge and sin – is a public menace.

“I…” Armie starts getting up.

“Oh, please, sit,” Tim’s hand lands on his shoulder and firmly pushes him back. “Please,” he smiles. “Do you remember me, Mr. Hammer?”

“Statistics,” Armie half states, half asks.

“Statistics,” Tim nods solemnly.

“Probabilities…”

“Yes,” Tim bites his lip, “so many. You don’t remember me? I thought… but you must have so many students…” he nods to himself. “Do you like it here?”

“Yes, I…”

“You from the south?” Tim doesn’t let him finish.

“Well, I…”

“It’s the accent,” Tim smiles. “Your Ws. So soft…”

“My…”

“I like your sweater,” Tim glances at Armie’s vest. “Did your wife buy it for you?”

“I don’t…”

“Cat?” Tim picks some phantom fur from his shoulder.

“Cat,” Armie nods stupidly.

“But no wife?” Tim’s eyes twinkle.

“What did you want to talk about, Timothée?” Armie glares at him.

“Oh, so you _do_ remember me,” Tim smiles brightly.

“Well, I think I saw you,” Armie coughs, “yes.”

“I saw you, too,” Tim says significantly. “I like your classes, Mr. Hammer.”

“Um, thank you…”

“I was thinking about… about that paper you asked us to prepare,” Tim glances at him.

Oh, please…

“And you can’t do it?” Armie smirks. “What, a favorite uncle died all of a sudden? Right when the homework is due?”

“No, no, he’s fine, thank you,” Tim reassures him. “I can write this paper, but I’m not… I’m not sure I should, Mr. Hammer…”

“Not sure you should?” Armie cocks his head.

“It’s sensitive,” Tim mumbles.

Where is all this blushing coming from? Armie wonders. If it’s for real, then Nicole made a huge mistake – he didn’t need any piano, he should’ve been sent straight to drama school.

Or, and the thought is frankly unbearable, he’s done it before and is simply reliving the experience.

“What was the topic of the paper?” Armie narrows his eyes.

“Using probabilities to make fair decisions,” Tim looks at him, surprised by the coldness of the tone.

“Hm, you’re probably thinking about college,” Armie guesses. “Yes, this method will…”

“Oh, no, I’m thinking about sex,” Tim smirks.

“Excuse me?”

Tim lowers his eyes again. “I never had a boyfriend, Mr. Hammer,” he whispers blushing even more. “But I want to, I want it very much…”

“Well, of course,” Armie pats his knee awkwardly. “Don’t worry, it will happen.”

“Why?” Tim glances at his hand, and Armie immediately withdraws it.

“Why… what?”

“Why not to worry?” Tim looks at him, biting his lip and, Armie suspects, trying not to laugh.

“A handsome young man like you,” Armie shrugs, “I wouldn’t.”

“You think I’m handsome?” Tim smiles.

“Timothée…”

“Timmy, call me Timmy.”

“Um…”

“I want an omega, Mr. Hammer. I like soft…”

“Let’s get back to…” Armie stretches his collar again. “To…”

“To sex?”

“This is hardly an appropriate topic for a school paper… Timmy.”

“That’s not what you said in class,” Tim frowns.

_Oh, I hope I don’t teach middle school. I hope people like me are extremely rare and all in therapy._

“I must have meant something else…”

“You said statistics isn’t a theory, it’s reality. We should apply it,” Tim explains.

“Yes,” Armie nods happily. “Of course.”

“I want to apply.”

“And you want to write about what exactly?”

“Orgasms.”

“Orgasms?” Armie stares.

Tim looks at him searchingly. It goes on long enough for Armie to start sweating. His alpha sniffs, a fleeting smile runs over his lips and then he suddenly slides along the desk closer to Armie.

“I want to take orgasm as an expected value and calculate how I could give it to my omega every time I’m pleasuring him,” Tim says watching him. “The problem is, in a fair game you can always lose, you can always get a zero, and zero is unacceptable to me. Un-acceptable. I want him to fall apart under me, every time. I want him to burn,” he slides closer, and Armie rolls his chair further back. “I have variables, of course, such as my mouth and my cock; but I need to know how to use them right on my omega.

“So, my question is,” Tim pauses and slides closer, “how do you respond to oral stimulation, Mr. Hammer?”

Armie blinks. Tim doesn’t.

“I propose that you respond _very_ well.”

“Timmy…”

They stare at each other silently. Armie’s heart starts to calm down a bit, he is going to wipe his sweaty forehead…

Tim watches his hand.

Armie looks at it nervously, puts it back, starts raising it again, puts it…

Suddenly Tim snaps his fangs, and the chair hits the wall.

“No, no, no… Oh, no…” Armie shakes his head, seeing Tim getting up.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Hammer,” Tim sits on his lap, effectively ending all Armie’s efforts to get up. “Yes. Many brave people sacrificed their lives and limbs to science. I don’t even ask for a limb,” he glances at Armie.

“Timmy, you need to…”

“The school is empty, you’re curious, and I need to learn.”

“You should… should save it for your boyfriend.”

“He’s too far in the future. I can’t wait this long.”

“I’ll be fired…”

“Certainly,” Tim nods.

“I love my job,” Armie swallows.

“Since when?”

“My cat… I need my job to…”

“You’ll share food stamps with him,” Tim pats his cheek. “He’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to live on food stamps…”

“No one does,” Tim agrees.

“Timmy, please…”

“Look, governor’s son is a senior here. You can say you fucked him, too. Governor isn’t popular these days - they won’t fire you, they’ll give you a raise.”

“And the dad will kill me…”

“No, no, he’s up for reelection soon - you sign non-disclosure, and he’ll arrange a Harvard tenure for you. He has two other sons, and you must have dreamed about academia…”

“Poor kid…”

“Yeah, sorta expendable,” Tim sighs. “So, Harvard, Mr. Hammer, think of Harvard, it’s right at the tip of your…” he glances at Armie’s lap.

Armie looks, too.

“For the science,” Tim nods and pulls his zipper.

“Wait!”

“What?”

“Why me? You must have other teachers… Why me?”

“Well, I was thinking about the chemistry guy, but when I saw you… I _knew_ we had a connection. You felt it, too - that’s why you remember me. We’re meant to be, Mr. Hammer. For a couple of minutes, at least.”

“And if someone comes?”

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” Tim rolls his eyes and slides to the floor.

“Look at you,” his hand is moving slowly and purposefully. “How you respond to my touch… So sensitive, like a well-tuned piano… Your alpha is very lucky – you can give him so much pleasure,” he looks up.

Armie throws his head back and closes his eyes. He feels Tim spreading his legs wider, the hand gently cups his balls, and a finger sneaks deeper, finds… that place… when you stroke it… heat wave rushes from his groin and almost lifts him off the chair…

“And now a special something for my favorite teacher,” he hears through the haze.

The mouth opens and swallows him whole. Two fangs run slowly down his length like two knife tips, tender and scary. Fear is exciting, exquisite.

Wait, what?

“Stop, stop, stop!” Armie sits up.

“Wh-um-h-at?” Tim chokes down there.

“The thing… You forg… We forgot… That thing for your teeth!”

“I didn’t forget - I’m sick of it. Can’t I blow you in peace, without a ton of plastic in my mouth?”

“Tim…”

“Please, Mr. Hammer?” Tim bats his eyelashes. “Please?”

Felt nice, you have to admit. Felt very nice.

What would his prototype do?

“You be careful there,” Armie warns. “I need it for my Harvard tenure.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll sleep your way to a Nobel yet… Ah! Sounds exciting, right?” Tim smirks. “Don’t forget little old me in your acceptance speech.”

“I’ll dedicate it to my cat,” Armie says sweetly.

“Yes? And I can bite your balls off,” Tim replies, equally saccharine.

“Ok, I’ll mention you.”

“Yeah, you do it.” Tim licks his lips, “Shall we continue?”

“Feel free…”

“Thank you, Mr. Hammer.”

They continue. He is touched as gently, patiently, carefully, as if it was indeed someone’s very first time to touch another human being like that, long before it’s routine, a skill, a sleight of hand.

The innocence is so real, he wants to throw up. Instead he comes, noisily and without a warning, feeling Tim choke on the results.

If all perverts are this ill-mannered, that’s truly criminal.

“Should I write it?” he hears above his own loud breathing and looks down to see Tim wiping his mouth, that damn bracelet front and center on his wrist. For a second Armie reads the word _prison_ embroidered on it and has to blink twice.

“What?” he asks dazedly.

“My paper, Mr. Hammer. Should I write it?”

“Yeah… You stumbled on something interesting. Definitely.”

“Is it an A?”

“Oh, it is,” he throws his head back. “It is.”

Tim gets up and brushes his knees. “How do you feel?”

“Considering that I’ve just molested my student?” Armie rolls his eyes. “Great.”

Tim rubs his throat. “Still hurts to swallow.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re all sweaty.”

“Yes,” Armie nods.

Tim helps him to take off his vest and sits on his lap. “Next time - you’re a hooker, I’m a client.”

“Hooker?” Armie raises his brow.

“Don’t you want to be a hooker? With a heart of gold, of course.”

“Funny no one ever asked.”

“Also, you were wrong,” Tim says after a while. “You have more to give the world than a bunny. They must have miscast you.”

“Yes, porn industry is losing out,” Armie sighs, then his eyes fall on tight jeans, red sneakers, striped t-shirt. “Take it all off!” he says immediately.

“We’ll play more?” Tim looks at him, surprised.

“No. I don’t want to… Where did you get all this? It’s scary!”

“Mom kept it,” Tim shrugs.

“So your mom knows, too,” Armie groans.

“She didn’t say anything,” Tim lowers his head on his shoulder. “She still has her cheerleader outfit – I never said anything, either,” he smiles.

“And you shouldn’t have now,” Armie mutters. One image he could live without – his mother-in-law in… “Pom-poms, too?”

“Yeah, pom-poms, too,” Tim nods, then growls suddenly. “Let’s get rid of this plant.”

Armie follows his eyes. “Yucca stays,” he chuckles.

“So stubborn, Mr. Hammer. Always so stubborn…”

 

<> 

July quietly turns into August. All traces of spring coolness are gone: air is hot, tired, slow; leaves, still green, are covered in dust by now; and you realize it’s exhaustion that you feel, after carrying this mellow, stifling  sky on your shoulders for so long. You’ll miss it in December – oh, how you’ll miss it! – but then it’ll be too late and you’ll promise yourself that next year, surely, next year you won’t make the mistake, you’ll appreciate it to the fullest. But eight months later you’ll do it all over again.

It’s not easy to be August. It never was.

Armie’s heat is just around the corner now. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. On the one hand, it’s wonderful to have someone by your side for the first time in years and to know that this someone really wants to be there for you during this time; on the other, it’s still nerve-wrecking to think how helpless you’ll be, how much you’ll depend on this someone’s good will and patience.

They’ve largely stayed away from the topic, but soon “the talk” will happen. Armie knows this. His heats, like it or not, will always be a part of their intimacy.

He is going to bring it up, but constantly delays, and then Tim beats him to it.

“I’ve been forgetting to tell you,” he says one evening returning from the shower, “I need a statement from your doctor about your heat, to apply for my leave.”

“You’ll take a week?” Armie watches him opening the closet.

“Yes,” Tim starts perusing his underwear drawer. “Gina gives you more?” he asks without turning.

The towel drops. Tim bends over.

“Umm…” Armie scratches his beard distractedly, “seven working days usually… but I rarely use them all.”

“Fuck, I’m beat,” Tim plops on the bed and sits with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

Armie crawls to him and starts gently massaging his shoulders. “Is it bad at work?” he asks compassionately.

“Tell me when it’s good,” Tim sighs and leans back. “It’s only August, and we’ve been sued 893 times since April. I’m actually giving another deposition in a couple of days. And it’s this fucking Mazursky again,” he growls.

The name doesn’t sound familiar to Armie. “Is he a celebrity?”

“Celebrity? Yeah, in my neck of the woods he is. The staples guy. He’s been waging war against us since before I was born. Sues us every year - doesn’t go for a settlement, swamps us with paperwork, gets his three hundred bucks and crawls back to his layer. Next year – strikes again. And do you know what he sues us for? Harassment and emotional damages.

“The shrink concocted him a paper that states that even a mention of IRS is pretty fucking traumatic to Mr. Mazursky. Like, every time he sees our commercial or something, he is so overwhelmed, he can’t function,” Tim explains, his head on Armie’s chest.

“But this time it’s a mess. Because he calls us, too, you know? Pretty regularly. Whatever it is that overwhelms him doesn’t overwhelm him enough to stay away from the phone, apparently,” he snorts. “Well, this time Heather somehow forgot to mute him while forwarding the call and he heard some unpleasant things about himself. Made his day, because he was taping the conversation.

“The judge threw it out, thank fuck, but our internal affairs had to start an investigation, so now I’m going to go and testify about the circumstances under which a senior citizen with a history of mental disturbance was called a ‘crazy old fuck.’”

“Well, that wasn’t nice,” Armie chuckles.

“Sending us bird shit isn’t nice, either.”

“He does?”

“He does,” Tim moans when Armie finds another clamped muscle. “Claims it’s an accident. He mixed the envelopes. Meant to send it to someone else, I guess.

“And when the envelopes don’t mix, it’s usually ‘Fuck the IRS!’ or ‘Repent, you sons of bitches!’ Signs it every time, naturally.”

“Isn’t it illegal? I mean, isn’t it a threat?” Armie frowns.

“Nah, threat is personal, ‘Fuck the IRS!’ is vague enough to be an opinion – a popular one - and as such is protected under freedom of speech and expression.

“You see,” he smiles tiredly, “this clown found out that every piece of correspondence we receive has to be read and stamped, regardless of contents. And if it’s signed, then the signature has to be verified and date stamped separately. So he floods us with his missives to add to paperwork, staples them all over, too. Talk about method in the madness. Oh, yes, yes, please…”

Armie starts massaging the base of his skull. “You do a very important job,” he whispers, “I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, come on,” Tim scoffs. “You’re so ashamed of my job, you don’t want your friends to even know about it.”

“No, I’m not ashamed,” Armie kisses the back of his neck. “I told you… Tim, you bring up your job, it inevitably leads to politics, and politics… I think that’s like religion - keep yours at home. Polite people don’t mention it.”

“You mention your politics all the time,” Tim glances at him. “And your friends are liberals.”

“My husband, too,” Armie smiles.

“I’m… socially liberal. Fiscally I’m conservative.”

“You’re all over the place.”

“Because I support global warming?” Tim chuckles. “I just can’t object to it. I _can’t_. It sounds sooo nice…”

Armie stops his ministrations and wraps him in his arms. “How about a vacation? I could take some time off in September or October,” he suggests. “We don’t even have to travel, could stay in the city. You’d relax a bit.”

“No, no chance,” Tim sighs. “September I’ll be catching up; October – I’m pretty sure there’ll be another trip, and it could be three weeks or more; and November I was planning to sign up for a training course – crypto – which’ll take another two months. Then, from January to April we’re pretty busy, so… Don’t know. Next summer, maybe.”

“Will you miss a lot because of my heat?” Armie asks quietly.

“Just money…” Tim shrugs and gives him a look. “And don’t start, please.”

“Money?” Armie frowns.

“Armie…”

“No, but… Why money? I don’t…” he pauses, suddenly suspicious. “Tim, are you going to take an unpaid leave?”

“Yes,” Tim nods. “Why?”

“Because… it doesn’t make sense. You could…”

“Yes, but I won’t,” Tim cuts him off.

“You won’t?”

“I won’t.”

“Why?”

“Won’t look good,” Tim sighs.

“Because it’s government?” Armie asks and mentally crosses his fingers – please, please, please, tell me it’s…

“Because I’m an alpha,” Tim says.

Of course, Armie closes his eyes. Of course. Here it is again.

Somehow he thought they would be able to pass that one without a squabble. But no, the country didn’t, so why should they?

And the country had a lot of soul-searching to do before it could move on. Revolutions are rarely bloodless and never innocent, so when it came to another breaking point in a social fabric, every side had its guns cleaned and loaded.

Divorce became socially acceptable, tits in prime time stopped being an outrage, minorities started speaking for themselves, and omegas, cute and fluffy, entered the workforce en masse for the first time.

Freedom begins with money, and men and women who’d been kept in a state of perpetual legal childhood wanted some. Initially, people protested, people rolled their eyes, people scolded, and then they just shrugged it off and moved on. Or at least those who weren’t employing these omegas did.

The main problem was heat. What to do about it? What is it? Temporary disability? Sickness? Vacation? And if it’s just a time to get off, then I’m not gonna fucking pay for it. Oh no, I won’t. Can’t work? Let them stay home. Fucktoys should be fucktoys, all I’m saying. Keep them in the bedroom, where they belong.

Committees were formed, experts were summoned, hearings were scheduled. The question was a burning one, no pun intended. The nation wanted order, and to reinstate order it needed some answers, to find which a group of “expert witnesses” was gathered and speedily sent to Washington to explain to people, who sometimes couldn’t differentiate between heat and high temperature, why it was virtually impossible to work while you have it.

Armie read some of the testimonies. He couldn’t stomach to read them all. The tone of the questions, the suppressed laughter still heard even in transcripts, the casual humiliation and open indifference that these “witnesses” faced weren’t something you’d call a groundbreaking historical moment; though, that’s how it would be described later.

In the end, what started with money came back to money. It’s very nice to think that morality wins, but morality is usually not enough, and greed, while rarely good, is certainly very effective. The reality was that omegas comprised about 15 percent of population at the time, with more than a half of them of working age. Simply put, it meant millions of people, and millions of people meant billions of dollars.

Philosophy aside, value of human life isn’t actually so complicated, it can be calculated. It can be calculated down to a cent. A working omega, even with two guaranteed weeks of sick leave every year, was much more valuable than the one sitting at home, waiting when their partner or spouse would feed them, if that spouse was in the mood that day.

So, fuck it, let’s give them their two weeks. Let’s even pay for it. Don’t worry, we’ll get it back quickly, we checked.

Cue the groundbreaking historical moment.

Cue the celebrations.

Cue the rounds of back-patting, and how fucking progressive we are, who could have thought?

Of course, there were some who argued that it shouldn’t be called “sick” leave. We’re not sick. That’s the way we are. Why can’t you simply accept us the way we are? But you should choose your battles, they were reminded. Don’t start. You won. You wanted to work, so now you can fucking work. End of story.

Or almost.

The second round started with alphas. If omegas are being paid, then what about their partners and spouses who accompany them during their heats? Logic suggested that they should be paid, too, shouldn’t they?

Ok, now, hold on a moment. That doesn’t seem right, and the numbers are saying the same. Look at the profit margins. Decreasing. Not good. Economy should be growing, not fucking decreasing.

So?

So, how about some philosophy now, eh? Or better, psychology. Yes, psychology has always been very friendly to economics. Let’s ask the shrinks, maybe they’ll look at the numbers and see something we don’t.

Naturally, they did. Took some time, studied the matter and returned with one simple word – status. You don’t have to worry, they said, the only thing you need to do is associate “leave” with “weakness,” and with it being a “sick leave” now, the work had already been done for you. Don’t you see? Make the paid leave _optional_ for alphas and betas, that’s all. Betas will take it, probably, but alphas… And given that omegas mostly choose alphas for partners… You see now?

Ahhh, not all that’s brilliant is also a touch diabolical, but what’s diabolical… Yes, just a touch.

Just a touch, Armie muses.

“You can’t be this stupid,” he says without thinking, and his hands drop from Tim’s shoulders.

Tim’s back grows rigid immediately. “I know what I’m doing,” he says coldly.

“Do you?”

“Yes, so mind your own business.”

“I would, with pleasure,” Armie scowls, “only it so happens that my heat concerns us both.”

“And nothing will happen with your heat!” Tim exclaims springing from the bed and turning to him. “I’ll be there, I won’t leave you for a second. What more do you want?”

“Not to be a burden, for starters,” Armie replies bitterly.

“You are not,” Tim sighs.

“Well, unfortunately, when I know that you’ll have to work, what, around 80 hours overtime every fucking year to compensate for the days you spend on me, then it certainly looks that way!”

“I can’t help what you think,” Tim shakes his head.

“Of course, you can,” Armie scoffs, “but Mr. Chalamet here, the same guy who constantly advises not to give a damn about what other people think, is himself fucking terrified of those people. What will happen, Tim? They’ll call you a pussy?”

“Don’t,” Tim raises a finger at him. “There are lines. You’re crossing one.”

“I want you to see, damn it!”

“I see!” Tim explodes. “Do you? What world do you live in, Armie? The one from your books? Take off the pink glasses, for fuck’s sake! How do you think a career like mine is built? You think it’s good manners and nice ties? It’s reputation and connections! And I’m all out of connections, unfortunately,” he chuckles bitterly. “Five years from now, when I’m up for something, someone will look at my record, and you know what he’ll say? ‘The son of a bitch can’t handle a job and an omega at the same time! Next!’

“You think I haven’t seen it? Think it’s urban legends or something? Happens every day. You can laugh at it all you want, can look down on it as something Paleolithic, or something, but that’s the reality that I have. And however primitive it seems to you, it’s nevertheless iron-clad. It works. And to get anywhere you need the biggest dick on the block, because the guys you’re going against certainly do. So, don’t come to me with your enlightened views, because it’s fucking jungle where I am. And if you can’t help, at least don’t put roadblocks in my way!”

“Wow…” Armie whispers, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah, wow…”

He doesn’t see it, Armie understands. To him it’s a whim, a caprice. He doesn’t see how humiliating it is in its core: “sick child” grew up to become a “sick husband,” an emergency, a problem.

Alphas are strong, and strong people take leave of absence, brush it off, don’t mention it again, don’t expect to be coddled. Unlike omegas who are a perpetual headache for any employer…

Everything political is personal to someone. You can’t have different laws for different people and still try to call them equal.

“Alright,” he says quietly, “alright. I won’t… give you my enlightened views, I will just ask – please, don’t put me in this position,” he raises his eyes to Tim. “I… _This_ will hurt me. Please, don’t do it.”

He feels Tim hesitating, sees pain clouding his eyes for a moment, and then he sees remorse, and knows that he’s lost.

“I can’t,” Tim says quietly and shakes his head. “I just… can’t.”

“I thought I was the most important thing in your life…”

“That’s a low blow.”

“An eye for an eye.” Armie looks at him silently, then, “I hope you’ll go far, I hope it’s all worth it, because your ambition… You’re pricey, honey,” he whispers.

“It won’t affect you in any way,” Tim tries.

“It already did.”

 

<> 

It’s like you have no ceiling at all, he thinks looking up. Like living under an open sky. How old is it? The building is more than a hundred, so probably something like that.

If you’re not careful, you can fall into it. Fall… up. Look for enough time and the head starts spinning, you start to believe that one of the angels will reach his pale hand and whisk you away, into cerulean and azure, into the place beyond the paint, where up and down don’t exist.

You can fall up.

You can forget.

“You think she’ll paint it over?” Nick asks, looking at the ceiling.

“I hope not,” Armie sighs. “I can’t imagine anyone buying an apartment like this and just… But people are fucking stupid,” he says harshly.

“Aha,” Nick purses his lips, then shrugs and gets back to his dumplings.

Armie glances at the container of steaming wontons in front of him and has to admit that it looks ridiculous under a hundred-year-old fresco. But this ceiling has probably seen much worse than two designers sitting on the floor and eating Chinese takeout from a dusty moving box. Plus, it’s not called a sitting room for nothing, what else are you supposed to do here, especially, when there are no chairs in sight?

“Maybe she’ll leave it,” Armie picks up a wonton, then puts it back. “She probably doesn’t even need this place. She didn’t seem particularly interested while we were talking.”

“She might not need it,” Nick stops chewing, “but she was interested, trust me. She asked me about ‘garbage furniture,’” he snickers. “Recycling is here, baby,” he salutes Armie with his chopstick, “and it’s here to stay. She is what? TV producer or something? It’s a status thing for her,” he looks around. “I live in the Village, all that. And she’ll sit on plastic chairs and eat from plastic tables, because it’s hot now and because all her friends do so. Even if she hates it herself. But frankly, I don’t think she’ll touch this fresco,” Nick nods up, “she simply doesn’t care enough.”

“Status,” Armie scowls at his food.

Nick watches him for some time and sighs, “You said you never argued.”

“Guess I was too optimistic,” Armie replies morosely, not even bothering to pretend that he doesn’t understand.

“What happened?”

“I honestly don’t want to talk about it,” Armie replies and curses himself, knowing that he won’t shut up now. “It’s just… It’s just being together, and everything…” he says vaguely. When you speak like that people are obligated to ask more. He knows this, he can’t help himself.

Nick nods, which is good enough. It means ‘continue,’ and Armie wants to continue. When there is no one at home to talk to, feel free, burden your friends with your bullshit. Don’t forget to get pissed, if they don’t care to listen.

“I like him,” he looks at Nick, “most of the time I like him a lot. Most of the time he is… But when he isn’t… All of a sudden, cold as steel, sharp as a knife.”

“He is an alpha,” Nick shrugs.

“No, that’s not it. Liz was an alpha, she wasn’t like that.”

“You mean the woman who broke up with you over the phone,” Nick scoffs, “after ten years of marriage?”

Right, that’s the trouble with friends – they know your biography better than a stranger who’d swallow your sad stories with a compassionate smile.

Though, with strangers you have to be polite - with friends there is still that “get pissed” option.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Armie narrows his eyes.

“No, I wasn’t present, true. But I was there later – if you didn’t know, you’d think she won a lottery, not broke someone’s heart.”

“She did, in a way,” Armie sighs. “Won a lottery.”

“Yep, and didn’t spare anyone’s feelings in the process.”

“She was just honest with me,” Armie shrugs. “We were always honest with each other. Would it have been better if she lied and slept with another man behind my back, to say later that it was to spare my feelings?”

“I have no idea what’s better. What I know is that this mentality,” Nick picks another dumpling, “that’s alpha - I came, I saw, I conquered; winner takes all; the ends justify the means. Your Liz saw what she wanted - and fuck the rest. _Après moi le deluge_ ,” he nods to himself. “They are brutal motherfuckers.”

“Alpha isn’t character, it’s just DNA.”

“Just DNA?” Nick looks at him. “And what about this theory that they were a product of interbreeding between Sapiens and Neanderthals?”

“It was discarded.”

“It shouldn’t have been. To me it makes perfect sense. Some specimens you meet - you can hear primordial swamp splashing behind those green eyes,” he shudders. “And chicks dig it.”

“Oh, someone has a complex,” Armie smirks.

“No,” Nick looks at him sharply, “someone has a wife who is stubborn as hell and won’t listen when you tell her that sparring with an alpha is a fucking risk. ‘I can spot crazy, don’t worry.’ And if you don’t? It’s enough to miss it just once, you know?”

“They aren’t all like that,” Armie replies quietly, regretting the conversation already.

“I didn’t mean Tim.”

“Nick…”

“Oh, I know, I know – read the papers,” Nick rolls his eyes, “last week a guy slaughtered his whole family. A beta. I know,” he sighs.

“Trish knows what she’s doing,” Armie tries.

“I know…”

“I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“You didn’t,” Nick smiles without humor. “It’s fine. Just admit that you have a type and buy a muzzle,” he winks and swallows another dumpling.

“I don’t have a type!” Armie scoffs.

“You think so?”

“Positive.”

“And Tim?”

“Tim?” Armie rolls his eyes. “Tim isn’t a type, he’s… a typo. I don’t know how he happened to me.”

“Love happens to you, Armie,” Nick chuckles, “marriage doesn’t. Especially twice.”

 

<> 

When he enters, Dr. Marsten quickly raises her finger, mouthing “sorry,” and immediately returns to her phone.

“Look, I talked to his teacher, what we deci…” she stops abruptly. “I’ll call you later, I’m working,” Julia says quickly and is going to hang up. “Yes, because you’re not the only one in this fam… I can’t talk right now… I said I can’t…” she rolls her eyes and cuts off someone in mid-word. Then she gives her undivided attention to Armie, who is sitting in front of her and has no idea what he’s done to make her eyes narrow like that.

Julia studies him thoughtfully, then shakes her head. “Just tell me,” she says resignedly.

“Won’t take much time, I just need the paper that…”

“What is it?” she interrupts. “Fasting? Cryo? Electricity? Nootropics? Injections?”

“I’m… not sure what you’re talking about,” Armie frowns.

Julia sighs. “Just don’t say it’s meditation. I’ve heard it enough times in this office to know for sure that it’s never ‘just’ meditation,” she air-quotes.

“All I need is a piece of paper from you,” Armie says. “Nothing else.”

“So, it’s dangerous. Even you know it’s dangerous. And you need my approval.”

“I don’t need your approval,” Armie replies exasperated. “I only need a signature.”

“You can tell me, you know? It’s better if I’m at least in the loop, that way I can monitor the situation someways.”

“What situation?”

“Whatever it is that you’re doing to yourself. I mean, yes, it’s working, but it’s always working at first, and people are never content with ‘enough,’ they push and push and… And then it’s ER time!” she looks at him scornfully.

“I don’t meditate,” Armie sighs. “And I don’t know what you think I’m pushing, but I’m not… pushing it. I swear.”

“Then what happened to you? You look 35!” she says it as if it’s a crime.

“I _am_ 35,” he reminds her.

“Yes, but three months ago you looked 40+, or what people say when they mean 50. What, you tapped into the youth fountain?”

“Tapped the youth, yes,” Armie mumbles under his breath and catches himself. “I got married,” he looks at her. “Per your recommendation.”

“Look…” she starts, and he taps the couple-ring on his left ear.

“Oh…” Julia opens her mouth, then her face lights up. “Oh! But that’s wonderful!”

Armie has always been wary of this “but” people attach to their compliments or praise, as if there was something else that was mentally added but not said aloud. As in: “I won a lottery!” “An idiot like you?.. Oh, but it’s wonderful!” Pat on the back.

“Yes,” he nods. “We’re barely speaking to each other these days,” he pauses and adds wickedly, “but it’s wonderful.”

“I know a very good counselor,” she opens her notebook and starts leafing through the pages. “She is amazing. 80 percent success rate.”

“No, thank you,” Armie shakes his head. “80%? What happens to the other twenty?”

“What would have happened to them anyway,” Julia shrugs. “Division of property, loss of mutual friends, constipation. The usual.”

“Constipation?”

“Common complaint during divorce.”

“We’re not there yet,” he tells her. “But thanks anyway.”

“Tell me honestly, is that the only reason for this splendor? You got married? That’s all?”

“I don’t know what you call ‘splendor,’ but yes, that’s the only thing that’s changed since we last met.”

“What I call splendor is clean skin, glossy hair and improved posture. Your shoulders are finally where they should be, so it doesn’t look like you’re bearing the weight of the world upon them. Your eyes are clear, even your crow’s feet disappeared,” she leans forward studying him.

“My crow’s feet?” he smiles.

“Yes,” she nods, “you started to develop them. And unfortunately, they don’t come with wings, so few people cheer when they spot them.” She smiles, “Ah, I’m so glad it’s only marriage. I was afraid it was another case of biohacking,” she sighs. “It’s an epidemic, truly. Among affluent city dwellers with Internet connection, at least. I have a guy – figs-only diet and electrical brain stimulation. Started out fine, then overdosed – zapped himself into stuttering; and figs are a natural laxative, so…”

“Divorce is clearly in order,” Armie smiles.

“It might be inevitable by now,” she shakes her head, then smiles warmly. “But you look fantastic. She needs to patent her method.”

“It’s a he,” Armie chuckles.

“Then _he_ is exactly what I would’ve prescribed you three months ago,” she smiles, and without a warning, tone all friendly, asks, “How’s your rectum?”

Armie stares at her. “Julia, I just need a letter from you. That’s all.”

“Inflammation? Itching? Bleeding? Burning sensation?”

“No.”

“Perfect. I have a brochure here…” she opens a drawer and starts looking for something.

“I don’t need a brochure,” Armie groans.

“You never know if you need a brochure or not,” she instructs sternly. “My son is the same. ‘I don’t need any brochures, Mom,’” she shakes her head. “Take it,” she hands him a colorful leaflet with a photo of two suburban-looking dudes holding hands and smiling. “Love Made Easy” the title promises. “You never know,” she says again.

“Thank you,” Armie sighs.

“You’re welcome,” Julia smiles. “I’d also like to tell you that we are partnering with a promising medical start-up that is developing an app for urine monitoring. You’ll be able to track  and evaluate the output, including its color, smell, pH, density and turbidity. Called UWatch,” she says pleasantly. “Would you like to participate in the test study?”

Armie stares and doesn’t plan to give up easily this time.

“Well,” Julia shrugs after a while, “I have to earn my daily bread, too.”

“Just give me my letter.”

“What letter?”

“My husband needs a letter from you, stating the time and duration of my heats, to request a leave of absence.”

“Oh, of course,” she nods. “Won’t take much time.”

“I thought so, too,” Armie sighs.

 

<> 

It’s quiet in their home these days. Not that they don’t talk, because they do – they say “hello,” they say “dinner is ready,” they say “goodnight,” they say “pass the salt.” They don’t say “love you,” they don’t ask “why are we doing this to each other.”

Can it be called talking? Maybe. It’s not silent as a crypt, their home, it’s just quiet. And it’s not cold, really, it only seems that way.

August fries the sidewalks, August turns the apples red.

You can’t be cold in August. It only seems that way.

Armie brings the statement he got from Julia and puts it on the table in front of Tim. He’s going to elaborate, but then he doesn’t, simply taps the hospital logo on top of the page and shrugs.

“Thank you,” Tim says.

He looks up and for a moment it seems he’ll add something, something important, but it’s just, “Dinner in twenty minutes.” Same that he said yesterday and the day before that and the…

So Armie nods and leaves the kitchen, going to his study, where he now spends most of his time, leafing through the books he has no desire to read and secretly waiting for the sound of steps in the hallway, for a knock on the door, for a “Let’s talk” than never comes.

He misses him, he misses him something fierce. He misses him in the morning, from across the table during breakfast. Misses the sloppy kiss he’d usually receive on his husband’s panicked run to the door. Misses coming into the kitchen and browsing through Tim’s things, finding this, finding that, sticking his nose into all the jars where it doesn’t belong. Misses fighting Tim’s blanket that invades his space together with its owner every damn night. Misses Tim’s touch, his smell, his soft growl, his laughing eyes after he says something outrageous and waits for Armie’s reaction. Misses the texts saying “I miss you,” in the middle of the day, apropos of nothing.

And Tim saying that they’ll figure it out. _We’ll figure it out, sugar._

That he misses, too.

Is he in the wrong here, he asks himself not for the first time. Is it such a big thing or tempest in a teapot? Does it matter what type of leave Tim will use?

But it does, he tells himself, it does. In September, when his husband will be working overtime, returning home at 9 or 10, Armie will be reminded again that they are both men, but they are treated differently, and he is the one whose “weakness” is presupposed, accepted, codified in law.

And to remember how dismissive Tim was! To know that he really doesn’t understand why it hurts when something that’s humiliating for him is suddenly alright for Armie…

Male omegas are the constant butt of the jokes. Their presumed tastes, manner of dress, bedroom preferences, tone of voice – all of that was turned into a punchline at some time or other.

_Knock up a chick – you get big tits as a reward. But knock up a guy, what do you get? Nothing plus child support._

Hilarious.

_Don’t bust your ass! Well, you can’t say it to this guy – it’s been busted for him long time ago. He’s an omega, you know?_

You know?

And people laugh, because they do.

So, yes, a tempest in a teapot is not a big deal, unless you live in that teapot. Then it hurts. The fact that they aren’t really “man to man” here, not only to others, but between them too… It hurts.

I know he loves me, I know we’ll figure it out, but I just want him to see, Armie thinks, to see even if only for a second why it’s wrong.

He opens a gray color scale that looks like a fan, and his fingertips run over its matte surface: 31 graduated colorfields - from purest white to absolute black.

You’re wrong, Tim, he smiles sadly, there are hundreds of shades. Even if most of us see only 30…

“Dinner,” Tim says from the door. Doesn’t come in, doesn’t say anything else.

Armie glances at him and nods.

Dinner.

Another round of “pass the salt.”

Quiet homes have quiet dinners.

He gets up and follows his husband to the kitchen. And it’s exactly what he expected – good food, cutlery in all the right places, clinking of forks instead of talking, and Tim across the table, somber, gaunt, dark circles under eyes, hair greasy at the roots.

You’ve been through a silent dinner with a lover, you’ll take a screaming match any time.

“I don’t know what to do,” Tim says quietly, and Armie looks up from his plate.

Tim watches him silently, then clears his throat, “I don’t understand it. Everything that… and it turns out wrong, and I… I don’t know why,” he shakes his head.

“I’m very close with my father, you know?” he says suddenly. “I don’t know what you think of him, but my father… he is a good man, and he loves me a lot. He’s always been very affectionate with me. Used to be. Still is but… it’s different now. Once he told me that his own father never kissed him. Why am I telling you this?” he raises his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to find the answer there.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. I’ll die to protect you. These are not just words – I will _die_ to protect you. I can’t imagine anything happening to you. I could… I don’t know, peel off my skin, give it to you as a carpet…

“Sometimes I wake up at night and see you, sleeping on my chest… and the world makes sense to me. And that’s because I’m pointless without you. Literally. Because I’m… well, I’m accidental, expendable, I’m… All that I have, the way I’m built, the purpose of my existence, not life but whole existence, it’s only to keep you safe. To go out there and decimate anything and everything that could be a danger to you. That’s what I am. The force, the sword, the fury. Something that’ll rip throats and break bones, so that you could sit quietly by the fire and maybe feed me some meat, if I happen to return in one piece.

“I don’t know how to… I don’t know how to show it to you, how to say it so that you could… You’re precious to me. You’re… If I could just have you in my pocket and carry you around, just to know that you’re safe…

“And you… I know you don’t mean it, but you’re asking me to go against everything that I am. I can’t change what I am, Armie…” a tear runs down his cheek. “I don’t know how to be what you want me to be… I’m sorry…”

Armie puts down his fork and looks at the table for a long moment.

“Don’t cry,” he says quietly, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. “Go wash your face, get yourself together, come back,” he looks up.

There is surprise on Tim’s face, there is pain, too, but he hastily wipes his cheeks and he gets up and he leaves silently. He’s an alpha. DNA, history or upbringing – he’s an alpha, he’d never do anything else.

Armie watches him go and closes his eyes.

In the end, what else can you do? In the end, you can only trust them, the people you give your heart to. You can only hope that they will know how to handle it, won’t mistake it for a pincushion, won’t use it as a napkin. Close your eyes, open your chest, you never know what’s coming – a kiss or a bullet.

In the end, love is a fair game.

But destiny isn’t.

Scary word, that, _destiny_. You turn your tricks, cover your tracks, hedge your bets and run circles; you lie with supreme confidence, aces stashed in your sleeve; you believe you fooled the map, and then – that one turn you were meant to take all along, suddenly.

Surprise, dear! Miles away was inches from, and take-it-or-leave-it was never an option. The roads you dodge, but the map is foolproof.

So, close your eyes… Picture a cave, if it helps. Or don’t, because it doesn’t. Time to see that it’s too late already, it was too late before it started.

Relax… Time to be you… It’s too late to be anyone else…

“What are you doing?” he hears and opens his eyes.

Tim is standing by the door, a frown on his face, eyes red, but no more tears.

“You once said you wanted me to eat from your hand,” Armie says from the floor, picks up a bowl of strawberries and raises it in the air. “Dessert.”

In the end, he’s an alpha and you’re an omega.

Primary colors matter.

Tim hesitates, which is flattering, and Armie raises his brow: time to answer for your words. The game’s got real. Are you?

He is an alpha, so he comes, starts lowering himself on the floor and stops, when Armie pats the chair. He’d blush, but he doesn’t. He accepts his place, takes the bowl and looks at Armie at his feet. His omega puts his chin on his knee, and Tim strokes his hair gently, fingers still cold from water that washed away the tears.

Armie inhales his scent, absorbs it, accepts it, remembers. It was too late before it started. When I was only eleven and you were born, it was already too late to change anything.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns.

“Like what?” Tim smiles.

“Like _this_ becoming a nightly occurrence.”

“I can’t be _this_ good every night.”

So smug, M. Chalamet, always so smug… Armie smirks and snatches the berry from his hand.

“Ouch!” Tim laughs, rubbing together his bitten fingers, and that laugh, so dear, so precious, makes Armie relent, makes him lean closer and softly lick the hand covered in strawberry juice.

In the end, winding up at your alpha’s feet isn’t the worst destination.

 

<> 

You don’t break the silence, you open it the way you open a treasured book, leaf through the pages carefully, glimpsing the words here and there, afraid to harm it, mindful of its delicate spine, so fragile in your eager clumsy hands.

You don’t exorcise shadows with bright light. You use a candle, you negotiate with darkness - ask it nicely and it just might leave.

Face to face for the first time in days, they lie on the bed and watch each other, relearning the landscape, reconnecting, returning.

“What are you thinking?” Tim whispers, instinctively following the laws of the hour.

Armie hesitates, but tells the truth. “That you’re dangerous.”

“I am.”

It’s as simple as that. No need for footnotes.

“Do you think…” Armie starts and goes silent.

“What?”

“No, it’s…” he closes his eyes momentarily. “Do you think you have something in common… with Liz?”

“Your wife?”

“Ex-wife.”

“Well, we both love your dick. There is that, I guess,” Tim smirks. “She moved on, but it still has one faithful fan. _Fidelis ad mortem_ , that’s me.” He thinks for a second, “Is she a bitch?”

“Liz?” Armie is surprised. “No.”

“Then we have nothing in common.”

“Dummy,” Armie flicks his nose but then stops and touches it gently. “It’s such a strange nose,” he muses, “I don’t know why it’s right for your face.”

“It was broken once.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Tim nods. “Feel here,” he takes Armie’s hand and directs his index finger to a small bump.

”How?”

“School fight.”

“Did it hurt?” Armie asks, simultaneously realizing how silly it sounds.

“Wrong question,” Tim smiles.

Armie looks at him thoughtfully. “Did you win?”

“Yes.”

Simple, so simple. Crystalline.

“Your face is so strange,” he whispers. “So sweet, and then – fangs. But somehow it’s right.”

He traces a line from the temple, along the cheekbone, down to the lips, and when his hand starts moving away, Tim catches his wrist and kisses his palm.

“You like it,” he whispers, knowing glance from under the lashes. “When I hold your wrists, it turns you on. Easy, easy,” he licks Armie’s pulse. “I could slash it, do you think about that? When we make love, do you think… he could rip my throat?”

“Maybe,” Armie swallows.

“And knowing that you can control it, that your one command could turn the beast into a puppy? Do you like that? The power you have, the power I give you, do you like that?”

“I…” Armie tries to snatch back his hand, but Tim clamps down on his finger and growls quietly.

“Power is like that: sweet, and then – fangs,” he licks the bitten fingers. “It’s who controls the puppeteer, you know? Always.”

He watches Armie, then moves soundlessly and straddles his chest, capturing both hands and slowly lifting them one by one to pin down above Armie’s head.

“Easy, easy,” he leans closer, their noses almost touching, and whispers. “I missed you. I missed you so much. You make me so weak, you make me… like an origami piece – squash and it’s gone. Feel it?” he rubs his hard cock over Armie’s stomach. “You have me by the balls, sugar. You always did. You always will. You keep them neatly tucked in your briefcase, can wear them as a necklace, can hang them on your totem pole. You draw the lines, you define the limits. You can make me beg,” he murmurs, their lips touching. “Isn’t it power? Isn’t it sweet?”

“I don’t want you to beg,” Armie replies.

“No?”

“No. You’re the alpha, you shouldn’t,” he whispers.

They make love. It could be something else, but tonight it’s just that.

He is being undressed, touched, kissed. He is held down, let go. He is bitten, soothed, bitten again. He sucks Tim’s tongue into his mouth and does something resembling a kiss, but deeper. He is proud of Tim’s reddened cheeks, slightly mad haze in his eyes. He is proud when his alpha wrenches his arms and pins them down, holding the wrists almost brutally; when he seems unable to control himself, his body turning into a diamond-hard machine driven by animal logic and instincts.

If he wants to make an impression, Tim fucks slow, but he fucks hard. He makes Armie sweat, squirm, swallow, he brings him to tears when he grips the head of his cock and squeezes ruthlessly – your alpha comes first tonight. But before it happens, he pulls out and it runs down Armie’s cheeks, falls on his chest, collects on his belly. No questions, because conquerors didn’t ask the cities they took if they wanted to bear their names for the rest of time - they gave them their names. They cancelled old calendars and started their own.

Later, Armie marks him, too, and Tim accepts it.

_Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit…_

Empires you conquer end up owning you. It’s power, and it’s sweet.

 

<> 

Armie is pretty sure the sun is different today. Kinder. More welcoming. And thinking that he might be the only guy in this city who’s going to wear a turtleneck today, he relies on this kindness. It’s like he’s never been married during the summer before. Well, he was, but not like that.

He watches Tim fussing around the kitchen – suit and apron, but no socks again – and tries to keep his mouth shut. His alpha’s feet and his socks have a tempestuous on-and-off relationship – they separate frequently, suffer without each other, get back together with cries of joy and then lose each other again.

Tim usually can’t find them, though he means to. And Armie usually can, though he didn’t.

Right now, looking at Tim’s bare feet, he’s pretty sure that one of the socks is actually under his pillow. No one can say why it’s there so often and usually alone, and if you point Tim in that direction, the reply will be something like, “What the hell do you want me to do with _one_ sock, Armie?!”

It’s easier not to bother.

So Armie drinks his coffee and doesn’t.

“Look,” Tim stops in front of him and slides something across the table.

“What is it?” Armie frowns looking at a booklet with the picture of a house reflecting in the water on its cover.

“I want us to go there for your heat.”

“Heat retreat?” Armie looks at him, surprised, and pushes it away.

“A very upscale heat retreat,” Tim points out.

“No.”

“Armie…”

“No!”

“Please, look at it,” Tim sighs. “It’s a very nice house, by the lake. Fireplace, jacuzzi, deck - first-rate…”

“Fuck pad,” Armie cuts him off.

“You’re thinking about a ground-floor apartment with linoleum floors and stinking sheets.”

“Nice flooring doesn’t change anything.”

“And that from an interior designer?” Tim smirks.

“This place looks expensive,” Armie glances at the booklet again.

“It is.”

“We can’t afford it then,” he says happily.

“We can,” Tim chuckles.

“And that from a guy who can’t get over a pair of shoes?”

“That,” Tim touches his cheek, “from your alpha who wants to make it good for you, who doesn’t want you stuck in this place for a week, reliving all the unpleasant experiences that you’d had here before. It is our first heat together - it’s important, it’s special. This place is very private - only eight houses around the lake: no one will bother us, you can go outside, breathe.”

“Tim…”

“Ambulance can get there in two minutes, any time of day or night, if you’re worried about that,” Tim scratches him behind the ear.

Oh, that’s playing dirty! Ears are sensitive.

“How much is it?” Armie closes his eyes.

“Just about the amount of the wedding gift we got from my parents,” Tim smiles.

“We got a?..” Armie blinks.

“Yes,” Tim nods and pushes the booklet back to him. “I asked to hold it for us for today. You don’t have to decide right now, but by tonight please do. You have about ten hours, digest. Ok?”

Armie frowns at the picture again. It doesn’t look so bad, you have to admit that. “Ok,” he sighs.

A second later a glass jar full of something blue, yellow and red enters his field of vision, pushed by Tim’s hand.

“Eat it all,” his alpha says sternly.

“What is this?”

“Overnight oats. All the rage, all the vitamins.” Tim stops on his way out and repeats, “All of it.”

So we’re eating from jars now, Armie curses silently. _Vive la France!_

“Yeah, Mom,” he grumbles under his breath.

“That,” someone whispers in his ear making him jump, “should be, ‘Yes, Daddy,’” Tim winks, quickly kissing his cheek, and rushes to the door. “See you later! Digest!” he cries. “Food, too.”

Bang - Tim’s out.

“Take off the apron, _Daddy_ ,” Armie mutters.

 

<> 

His day is spent on communicating with the “fresco lady,” as he calls her, and most of it is wasted on pointless talking that won’t have any visible results. Armie suggests something, she needs to understand the cost, Nick prepares the preliminary budget, she agrees, she changes her mind, she forgets what she agreed to, she has a question, she has an idea. Her friend has just returned from Morocco. There are a lot of beautiful rugs in Morocco. She wants one, but she isn’t sure. They add a rug. She realizes that no, rugs aren’t her thing, after all. But she has a new idea: how about that wall between the bedroom and the sitting room? What if we get rid of it? Feng shui recommends it. Nice idea, Armie agrees, only the building will collapse, unfortunately - it’s a bearing wall.

In theory, it’s his job to come up with ideas, but he found out long ago that first you need to give them time to talk - your clients are excited, and they need someone to share it with. Who else would listen about their struggles in choosing a toilet that’s just right for them?

No one. Only you. 

But the weirdest part comes when the flirting begins, because sometimes it does. Sometimes – like today - ten minutes after a toilet discussion and just barely into leaking pipes, he’s ambushed with a postscript: _I’m all into pipe cleaning ;);)_

And that’s why he really needs Nick by his side. Because, not knowing how to react, he’d have written “me too,” just to be polite.

“You crazy?” Nick looks at him. “That’s basically saying that you want to do her. She is a client!”

“Ok,” Armie groans. “I’ll say I’m married.”

“Stop!” Nick grabs his hands an inch from the keyboard. “No. That’s rude.”

“Rude?” Armie stares at him.

“That’s like _fuck off, dream on_. Rude.” He purses his lips, then writes: _aren’t we all?:)_

“And that’s better?” Armie looks at the screen doubtfully.

“Yes,” Nick nods. “That’s neither yes, nor no – you find her attractive enough to imagine it and respect her enough to never suggest it. And you can’t be sued for imagining. Win-win. And no winky faces from you, ever,” he instructs, then adds, “That’s semicolon and…”

“I know what it is,” Armie interrupts him, irritated, then frowns. “You think she’ll do it again?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Nick chuckles. “Just write _we_ everywhere. _We_ is safe. Unless you mean ‘me and my dick.’”

“I’ll just call you again,” Armie decides.

“Do you know why it happens to you so often?” Nick smiles.

“Enlighten me.”

“They think you’re safe. As soon as they get used to you, they write you off as harmless fun. You’re… reserved, that’s aphrodisiac to many. Including guys.”

“Guys don’t write to me anything like…” Armie waves at the screen. “Ever.”

“Oh, yeah, they do. You remember the one who was going on and on about his Ferrari? Like, how he enjoys driving it, all that?”

“Vaguely,” Armie frowns.

“You know, he’s never even mentioned it to me?” Nick looks at him.

Yes, Armie closes his eyes, evacuate from this planet. Take Tim and evacuate, ASAP.

“I’ll… pay more attention to my correspondence,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Home?” Nick smirks looking at his turtleneck. “All good?”

“Yes, thank you,” Armie replies primly.

“I’m right there, if you need me,” Nick winks, nodding to his desk across the office.

And this nonsense is what frequently constitutes work for Armie. Not exactly back-breaking labor, but all included, it often exhausts him by the end of the day.

He looks at the booklet Tim gave him in the morning and frowns. He barely had time to think about it. The idea has merit, certainly, but on the other hand…

He glances at the clock on his screen and sees that it’s already past eight. Where did the day go? He’s usually home by this hour.

Pipes… Ferraris…

Fuck, time to go. He’ll think about the booklet on the subway. He gets up and starts collecting his things and then notices that he’s not alone. It’s not unusual for someone to stay late: there are always projects that would demand more attention, something would always go wrong at the last minute or something would refuse to go right; and it’s not unusual to see light in that part of the office after hours, but some sixth sense tells Armie that tonight is different.

“You just can’t stop being you,” Gina looks at the pack of mints that he sets on her desk, right beside the ashtray with a cigarette still burning.

“Had them around,” Armie shrugs.

“Of course,” she smiles bitterly. “Why?” she nods to the half-empty bottle. “I ran into my ex in Our Finest City. Wife, three kids. Nice girl. Looks… very maternal,” she sighs. “What a shitty world! The people you want to die without you always survive and prosper. Cute as kittens, both of them, and I’m here, drinking from a bottle.

“You know what my mother used to say?” she looks at him. “You can drink from a bottle and pull it off, you’re a lady. Do you believe it?”

“I don’t think anyone could pull it off,” he replies honestly.

“In the movies somehow they do. Good angle, right lighting, satin, diamonds and a cigarette holder - heroine raises the bottle and drinks like a trucker, but it looks pretty. In the movies.

“I’m forty-eight,” she says abruptly and looks at him like a hawk.

To lower your eyes and blush, to acknowledge her show of weakness would be a mistake, he knows. So he doesn’t. “Befriend the cinematographer, he can make you look twenty-five,” he jokes.

“Twenty-five?” Gina snorts. “I was a fool at twenty-five… I miss that. Miss that more than my tight butt and perky tits,” she says and pushes the bottle to him.

He understands that it’s her way of saying thank you. Thank you for understanding and still keeping your mouth shut. He takes the bottle and drinks.

“You’re right,” she smiles. “No one can do it.”

“You really don’t want to go home?” Armie wipes his lips.

“No, I really don’t want to go home,” she picks up her cigarette and drags deeply, squinting from the smoke. “Jordan wants to ask me for divorce and can’t. Been wanting to do it for the last, maybe, six-eight months. Tell me, how could I marry a man who doesn’t have the balls to even break it off?” she glances at him but doesn’t expect an answer.

“And the worst part, the worst part is that there is no ‘someone else’. No secretary, no bimbo, no… hairdresser. I checked. He just wants out. And that’s… Fuck, that hurts. A man leaves you and there is no one to blame. You can’t even break dishes or bash his car. You can’t even do that.”

“Maybe…” Armie starts.

“No,” she gives him a look, “don’t. I’m not twenty-five anymore. How is your little alpha?”

“Fine,” he nods, “we’re fine.”

“Well, listen to Mama Virginia for once – take your leave and let him fuck your brains out. Don’t forget to say thank you afterwards. Be polite,” she says and looks at the darkened city in the window.  

“I never wanted to meet my mate,” she says quietly. “You lose that one – you know there’s no hope for you.” She takes another drag, “Jordan is leaving, but I’m flying to Paris in October. There’s still hope.”

She turns and smiles almost kindly, “It’s late. Get your ass home.”

 

<> 

“I digested,” Armie announces.

Tim pauses with a knife in the air. “And?”

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Ok,” Armie nods.

“Well, um, then, I should call the guy, say that we’ll take it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you read the brochure? There is another house there, currently free. It has a telescope.”

“To spy on your neighbors?” Armie chuckles.

“No, I don’t…” Tim’s eyes widen, “You think people would do that? There are trees all around, I don’t think you could see much, but I can…”

“Tim, it’s fine. If someone craves a sight of my naked ass, they’re welcome to it.”

“No, they are not,” his alpha says firmly.

“The house that you chose is fine.”

“It has a stone garden,” Tim smiles. “And a fountain.”

“Then we’ll take it,” Armie nods.

“It’s called _Abalone_ ,” Tim remembers. _“_ I don’t know what it means.”

Armie opens the brochure that he’s been holding and starts leafing through it. “ _Fandango_ , _Carolina_ , _Amaranth_ , _Sacramento_ …” he reads and frowns, then his face clears. “These are names for color shades,” he smiles.

“Sacramento is a city, no?”

“And a shade of green,” Armie looks at the picture. “Heavy, but very mature.”

“Mature?” Tim asks and turns to the stove to stir something in the pan.

“I have a book,” Armie smiles, “published about a hundred years ago, in it more than a thousand shades are defined and named. I’ll show you sometime. Some of them sound very poetic. It’s a shame that we don’t teach these things, like they do in Japan,” he muses. “I was told that their ten-year-olds can name more than a hundred colors. Isn’t it marvelous?” he looks at Tim.

“I guess,” Tim shrugs and cracks a walnut. “If you want to be an artist…”

“And if you just want to see?”

“Look,” Tim replies distractedly.

“No, it’s not that simple,” Armie shakes his head. “To see vermilion you have to know that it’s vermilion, otherwise you just see red. Though, a Portuguese will understand you in a way - he’ll hear ‘red,’ and think, _vermelho_ ; but by the time you’re talking to a Frenchman, it’s already too late, and there is only _rouge_. So years later, you’ll remember it as _rouge_ – and just like that,” he clicks his fingers, “you went from bold vivacious color to gloomy powder concealing tubercular cheeks. You’ve lost it.

“I remember reading some book where a guy wanted to find the color for menstrual blood, he had some trouble with it…” Armie chuckles and glances at Tim who seems not to know how to react to all this.

“Ummm… so, no telescope?” his husband clarifies.

“No, no telescope,” Armie laughs quietly. “I think we’ll get by without it. It’s not rocket science, as they say,” he winks. “I’ll be in my study,” he picks up the brochure and turns to leave.

“Armie?”

“Yes.”

“Why…” Tim pauses, suddenly nervous, “why did you agree?”

“For the same reason Eric did,” Armie smiles from the door. “I trust you.”

 

<> 

“I like that,” Tim whispers in his ear.

“Sitting on my lap?” Armie smiles.

“That, too,” Tim sighs rubbing his chin on Armie’s shoulder.

Admittedly, Armie likes it, too, this sitting quietly in the dark, arms around each other, breathing in, breathing out, all in sync. City lights refracted by the window glass and dimmed. Sounds hushed, minutes drawn out. Tim’s hair caressing his cheek.

You don’t believe the sun will ever rise again, and you don’t want it to. Daylight is sharp, but this early night is velvety, smooth, tender.

“I want to shave it off,” Armie scratches his beard again.

“You may,” Tim replies, voice full of smile.

“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Grow it back for my birthday.”

“You don’t want much,” Armie chuckles. “Good.”

“No, I want a Rolex, too.”

“Then no beard.”

“You don’t make it easy for me,” Tim sighs.

“You don’t want easy.”

“How about a Casio?”

“Casio will go with a stubble,” Armie smirks.

“Nah, I want balls-to-the-wall full Amish from you.”

“Then that’s the only thing you’ll get,” he squeezes him tighter.

“You’re a cruel, cruel man,” Tim leans back and strokes his cheek. “This thing is so pretty.”

“I scratch it constantly. People on the subway think I have fleas.”

“Those who live in glass houses…” Tim smirks.

“No, it served its purpose, I’m shaving it,” Armie decides.

Tim cocks his head and looks at him for a long moment. “Tell me about your colors,” he says quietly.

“What about _my_ colors?”

“Which one do you like most?”

Armie purses his lips, looks around, then, as if by accident, his eyes return to Tim’s face. “Green,” he whispers. “I really like green.”

Tim smiles softly. “Tell me about green then.”

“Green?” Armie takes his time to think. “Green is difficult to sum up. Temperamental, ambiguous, mysterious color. It is youth, hope, fertility and rebirth, but also arsenic, gangrene, pus and rot. Life starts with green, and bronze dies with it. Cyanide comes from cyan, which is born of green. Irish adore it, Chinese revere and mistrust it. To us it’s money, to some South American tribes – death,” he says and pauses.

“According to the legends, famous celadon cups and plates would break if food or drink in them were poisoned; but an 18th century artist painting spring would go blind in a few years because his palette was lethal.

“All over the map – Bangladesh green, Caribbean green, Chinese green, Persian green. In everything, everywhere - elusive verdigris, stormy viridian and suave chartreuse; exuberant absinth and lulling Crème de Menthe; malachite, emeralds and jade; Green Knight and jolly bandits in their Lincoln Green. Cozy lamps in the library, oasis shimmering in the desert, but also toxic waste, and Paris green, and camouflage, and tanks. And heart of the jungle, and secret in cat’s eyes, and devastating memory of a prewar garden,” he cups Tim’s cheek. “Familiar like Granny Smith, encouraging like green of traffic lights, but also somber like cemetery moss, but also hopeless like a stagnant pond.

“Color of wisdom and peace, but also envy, but also jealousy. Green, like everything worth having, can become the best or the worst thing that ever happened to you,” he finishes quietly.

Tim is quiet at first. “I’ve never slept with anyone this smart,” he smiles.

“Me too,” Armie kisses his nose.

“Really?”

“You’re pretty hot with your calculator,” he shrugs.

“Ahh,” Tim sighs, “just imagine our kids. Geniuses, all of them. Raving geniuses.”

Armie closes his eyes. Yes, you can’t escape for long. Night is a wonderful concealer, but it has its limits, too.

“I don’t want kids, Tim,” he says.

“Well, I’m not saying now. We’ll sow our overnight oats first,” Tim smiles.

Armie looks at him sadly. “I’m sorry.”

Tim opens his mouth, pauses. “You don’t want kids… at all?”

Armie just shakes his head. “I’m…” he starts and Tim covers his mouth with his hand.

He looks away and is silent. “I want you to be honest with me, Armie. It’s important. I don’t… but be honest with me, please.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t want kids,” Tim turns and looks at him, “or you don’t want kids… with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Please,” Tim shakes his head.

The hell of it is that Armie doesn’t know how to reply to it without lying, even in part. He wants to be honest, but to be honest would be to admit that if Liz asked him this only three years ago, he’d probably agree. He’d agree, not because he really thought it was a good idea, but because it would be _her_ idea.

But then she would get on that plane… Whatever road you take, in the end you always get on that plane. And Nick is right, when she wanted something, she just went after it. So, there’d be the divorce, and moving to England, and starting a new family. And Armie knows, he knows it without a shadow of a doubt that then he’d go after her, he’d have to, because he wouldn’t want his kid to grow up like he did.

So he tries to answer as truthfully as he can. “I never wanted children, Tim. I know it’s… it’s a lot to take in. I didn’t expect to talk about it now,” he sighs.

“If not now, when? Your heat is in two weeks.”

His heart skips a beat. “You could get me pregnant, you know that?”

“Yes,” Tim nods.

“I got the pills from my doctor, but… they aren’t bulletproof…”

Tim stops him. “I’d never do that to you. Armie, I know it’s difficult, but you’ll have to trust me. This time you’ll have to trust me,” he pauses. “By next April I’ll do a vasectomy.”

“No!”

“Why not? It’s the safest route, and it’s reversible.”

He feels old habits waking up and rearing their heads – to be nice, to be polite, to be accommodating, even against your better judgement. To buy love at any price.

But then he looks at Tim and remembers: no amount of safe words will help, if you don’t use them…

“I hate to put you through all this,” he whispers.

“What?” Tim smiles sadly. “Life? Armie, _this_ is being together, _this_ is for-better-or-worse part. My father always wanted a job in the White House, it was his dream, but my mom loves New York and hates Washington,” he shrugs. “They found a way.”

“By killing his dream?”

“By compromising,” Tim kisses his forehead. “He loves the job he has now, and he is constantly in DC, has friends there, has his deals, takes pictures with important people. Then he comes home, and there we are – his wife, his kids. You can’t have everything, you grow up you understand that.”

“It sounds so depressing,” Armie frowns.

“Mature, Armie, it sounds mature. You want everything the way you like it, stay alone; but if you choose to share your life with someone, accept their limits, and in return they’ll accept yours. My mom wanted a third child, and my dad didn’t, so they have two. In marriage, you learn as you go. I chose to share my life with you, and I’ll never…”

Armie covers his mouth.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No. You’re going to give a promise that you shouldn’t. You’re twenty-four, Tim. _Only_ twenty-four. Ten years from now, you’ll be a different person,” he swallows. “Old promises will chafe.”

“Ten years from now,” Tim removes his hand, “you’ll be a different person, too.”

“I’ll be forty-five,” Armie smiles.

“Geriatric pregnancy,” Tim winks.

“Thank you, I’ll pass.”

“Come on, people give birth at sixty these days,” Tim smiles.

“At sixty, I’ll be watching cat videos and using bed warmers.”

“At sixty,” Tim scoffs, “you’ll eat carrots like candies and worry if your ass is still where it is today, because your husband will be a 49er with a high school libido. Men in my family are notoriously virile,” he sits straighter.

“Notoriously?”

“Notoriously, yes, so all these retirement plans – kiss them goodbye. No rest for the wicked.

“And, it’s just crossed my mind…” his eyes sparkle mischievously. “If I knock you up in April, he’ll be a Capricorn. Like me!”

“I won’t give birth to another you,” Armie laughs. “No way!”

“You should!”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Well, hell, if we conceive in August, he might be…” Tim calculates silently. “A Taurus!” he realizes. “You!”

“We’re doomed,” Armie sighs.

“Not if it’s April, like I suggest. I vote April.”

“I abstain.”

“Abstinence won’t fly in this marriage.”

“I refuse to even…” Armie stops, his eyes narrow. “You read horoscopes!”

Tim’s face freezes. “I read newspapers,” he says.

“Including horoscopes.”

“I read politics and business sections. Plus international, if I have time. Never opinions – I have my own.”

“And horoscopes,” Armie smirks.

“Let me go, I need to…” Tim is very jumpy all of a sudden.

“Oh, no. Sit tight,” Armie holds him securely. “ _You_ read horoscopes.”

Tim gives him a long-suffering look, sighs, wiggles a bit more, remembers that offence is the best defense and, “Astrology gave rise to astronomy and math,” he declares. “You have 7-day week, 12-month year, you have _clocks_ thanks to astrology!”

Armie nods. “ _You_ read horoscopes.”

“Fuck, yes, I do!” Tim explodes. “It’s the only good news in the paper anyway.”

“But you’re a rational person…”

“So?”

“So, how? Why?”

“Well, Zara taught me a lot,” Tim shrugs.

“Zara?”

“Her desk is right across from mine, we communicate,” Tim says significantly. “She is Greek. Greeks are ancient, they know this stuff. Zara is ancient, too, and she is wise. She drew our horary chart to help me plan my course of action in the beginning.”

“Horary chart?”

“Yes,” Tim nods, “and get off your high horse – you can’t imagine the amount and complexity of calculations that go into this. It takes time.”

“Right,” Armie snorts, “that’s exactly what we’re paying our civil servants for – to draw star charts.”

“We have slow days, too,” Tim shrugs. “And it was useful. Because my mom’s advice was to go and introduce myself first. And what? I went and introduced myself, and you sent me to hell. Thanks, Ma!” he rolls his eyes.

“So, naturally, you turned to astrology,” Armie says drily.

“I needed to understand you!”

“‘Go to hell’ wasn’t clear enough?”

“No, nothing was clear. I had no idea what to think, but then I talked to Zara, and she said you were probably Gemini.”

“That helped?”

“Yes. Because Mom told me you were smart, shy and divorced. I admit I didn’t much care for ‘smart’ at the time, but the divorced part I liked. ‘Divorced’ meant _available,_ so I didn’t get your attitude. But Zara explained that it’s just like Gemini – being smart but irrational. When she drew our chart, your stars said the same,” he finishes happily.

“How convenient…”

“It was reassuring, I agree.”

“And wrong.”

“No, Zara figured you out. She said your Mercury was a mess, but that’s a common sense planet, so it fitted. Plus…” he frowns, thinking. “Oh, right! My Mars was ascending at the time, and it would intimidate your Moons. Tread carefully.”

“My Moons?”

“You have two – one black, one white,” Tim informs him. “Both very timid.”

“And knowing _that_ , you decided to attack me in the street,” Armie looks at him. “Logical!”

“I didn’t attack you, I just needed to check. If you harass the wrong guy, that’s a crime. I needed to be sure, you understand? Besides, Zara said – grab those Moons, and his Sun will come out. You have a big warm Sun in one of the Houses, and it can be aligned harmoniously with my Mars.

“It was February,” Tim sighs, “I wanted your Sun very much, so I grabbed.”

“And I turned out to be a Taurus,” Armie nods.

“Yes, but Zara was right anyway.”

“That tells you a lot about astrology,” Armie shakes his head.

“Astrology is math plus optimism,” Tim teaches him. “Most people don’t know how to read a horoscope - they get easily discouraged. They read something unpleasant and give up, but the trick is to keep going.

“Like, if you’re a Leo and you read, _well, you might break your neck today._ Don’t stop at that. Don’t! Keep reading. Pisces might be in for a lottery win. So, go buy a ticket and live your day as if you had a winning number in your pocket.”

“And if you still break your neck?”

“Then you’re a living proof that astrology works,” Tim shrugs.

“Not exactly _living,_ ” Armie smiles.

“You can survive a broken neck, depends on where you broke it. And if you arrive in the hospital with that ticket, your bills are already paid. It’s a foolproof strategy. Astrology applied correctly is a hopeful science.

“Besides, Taurus and Capricorn are a very promising union. We have good stars, you and I,” he smiles. “Only what Zara took for your Sun is actually your Venus. But it’s ok, it’s warm, too. Warm, round and pinky, I like your Venus _a lot_.

“Also, our baby will be so cute, soooo cute. Like me,” he works those lashes for all they are worth.

Armie laughs. “No.”

“One time I asked for something! One time!”

“I asked you to bake a cake - you want me to birth a Capricorn. Think it’s fair?”

“You have the oven,” Tim points out.

“You have the oven, too,” Armie rolls his eyes, “thanks to my liberal friends.”

“I’d give you triplets, if I could.”

“Astounding generosity! Especially knowing that you can’t.”

“But they’d be so cute,” Tim sighs wistfully.

“All three?”

“Yes, all three. And all three like me, but with your nose, because yours is better, and with your ass - it’s better, too. One heirloom worth passing on.”

“Our cute-ass herd,” Armie nods.

“Our horny family,” Tim agrees.

“Tim, I…”

Tim covers his mouth. “You tell me, if you change your mind. Ok?”

“Ok,” Armie promises and receives a kiss in return.

 

<> 

He is a dick.

He knows it. Almost all the time he knows it.

And he doesn’t want to be.

But he is.

Almost all the time.

His temperature started spiking unpredictably several days ago. His appetite steadily grows. He is at times irritable, suspicious, demanding, aloof, sleepy, hungry, exuberant, dejected, and he never knows what it’ll be in the next five minutes.

He wakes up sweaty. He goes to sleep trembling from cold. He wants to talk, then he can’t stand anyone to be near him. He wants to lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling for hours, and then suddenly _it’s all a mess! we have to clean it up! Yes, now! Yes, fucking now! Get up! We can’t live in this pigsty!_ And he sends Tim to clean the shower in the middle of the week, late at night, because it’s impossible, it’s unbearable. _We have to clean it!_

Afterwards, he is remorseful, quiet, distant - angry that Tim just went and did it, apologetic that he made him. But it’s Tim’s fault, Tim can’t do anything right – he can’t even cook right these days. _Chicken again? I hate it! You know I hate it!_ Since when? Why? Doesn’t matter. Tim makes him some vegetable ragu, and it’s fine, it’s even good, but there’s not enough of it. _You didn’t plan on it? So what? You’re the cook here, plan better!_  

Next day, at work, remembering it all, he’s so ashamed, he’s ready to start sobbing, right there, at his desk. He picks up the phone and starts composing a long incoherent text – a lot of _I love yous_ and not much sense. He doesn’t send it. No, text isn’t enough. He’ll make it up. For the shower and for the chicken, he’ll make it up. He’ll… He doesn’t know how at first, but on his way home, passing a flower shop, he has an idea. He comes in and sees sunflowers, he loves them so much – their laughing shining heads so full of light and summer. He buys the whole bucket, he doesn’t care. On the subway, people look at them and smile, and he smiles, too. He’ll make it alright again.

He brings his bouquet and thrusts it to Tim, still smiling manically. And Tim is… He is confused. He takes them but… _What? What now? You can buy me flowers, but I can’t. Because you’re an alpha? Because you’re a man? And I… What am I?_

He snatches them from Tim and throws them on the floor, storms away, locks himself in his study, sits there brooding, realizing, regretting. He sits there until Tim calls him to dinner. It’s fish. Fish is fine, wonderful. _Thank you. Thank you._

He looks at the flowers in the corner. There was no vase big enough, so Tim put them in another bucket. He looks at them, and he wants to cry again. But then his eyes meet Tim’s, and suddenly he loves him, he loves him so much, and he wants him. Now. Immediately. To hell with the fish. So he picks him up and carries him to the bedroom. He doesn’t ask - Tim should understand. Besides, Tim’s always wanted him, too; doesn’t he want him now? He carries him to the bedroom, eager, desperate, hot all over. His skin is so sensitive these days, every fabric itch, he rips it all off, he throws Tim down and he can’t get enough - of the skin, of the scent, of the touch. _Come on, come on, come on! Where? Provide! You said you’d provide! Start providing!_

But three minutes later, while Tim is providing, as much as he can, Armie remembers about the dishes, dirty dishes in the kitchen. _No! Get off me! We have to… No!_

And he is hungry again. Ravenous. So on his way to the sink he doesn’t forget to eat what’s left of the fish. Cold now, but it doesn’t matter. He is hungry enough to eat for two, and he does. Looks up from the table and notices Tim at the door, just standing there, watching him. And Armie suddenly sees his oily fingers, sees himself hunched over the table, eating without cutlery, stuffing his mouth, not bothering to chew, and he’s… He can’t speak, he’s so ashamed.

During the night his temperature rises. He tosses and turns, turns, turns, until he can’t stand it anymore, so he gets up and walks to the balcony, sits there, trembling, dry-heaving, trying to be quiet, trying not to feel so much shame again. He doesn’t know how long he spends there, but he doesn’t return to the bed, he just can’t. He stops at the couch in the living room, curls up in a ball, and that’s where Tim finds him in the morning.

At first he panics. They overslept. If Tim’s up, then it must be too late, because it’s his job to wake up Tim every morning. But then he sees the clock, and it’s half past six. Tim didn’t oversleep, he probably used the alarm on his phone, because he knows he can’t rely on his husband these days…

That thought hits Armie so hard, right in the solar plexus. He doesn’t notice when he starts dry-heaving again, but then he feels Tim’s hands on his head, calm, gentle, loving and _shhh, shhh, shhh, darling. Shhh…_ Tim sits beside him and gathers him in his arms, stroking him silently, his head, his back, his shoulders. Does it for a long time, until he’s late for work.

And Armie promises - to himself and out loud - that he’ll get himself together, he’ll get a grip, it will be ok, you’ll see, tonight… He’ll be on his best behavior tonight, he’ll be himself again. He promises.

And he’s ready to keep this promise, all day he’s ready to keep it. He’s very pleasant with everyone - doesn’t annoy Nick, buys muffins for Youngmi and Claudia, doesn’t forget a cronut for Gina, fig mascarpone, her favorite. He’s relaxed, carefree, almost serene. He laughs when he passes another flower shop and sees sunflowers. _What a silly thing it was to do!_ He tells himself he’ll compliment everything Tim prepares tonight, regardless of quality, he’ll eat it all, he’ll offer a toast, he’ll happily agree to any movie Tim chooses and he’ll give him a massage, too. Tim is tired, it’s obvious. He needs care, affection, needs them no less than Armie.

He comes home, he kisses his husband, he hugs him fiercely, breathes in his scent. He can’t stop smiling. Is he smiling too much? Doesn’t matter. It’s all so good, it’s all so wonderful.

He follows Tim to the kitchen, ready to help with the dinner, or just stay around. He won’t be in the way, he tells himself. He’ll just be close to Tim, will just sit quietly and watch him cook. He can be anything Tim asks him to be tonight. Then he sees the book Tim is reading. That fucking book, the same one he was reading when they first met each other: the word “mating” in the title and that sickening, cemeterial green cover.

_Why? Again? What am I, a lab rat to you? You think I’m an animal? Something to be studied? You think… Why… Fuck you! You think… An animal? What am I to you? What am I…_

It’s the first time he eats dinner in his study, alone. All three servings. And when he is finally sated, he’s horny again, unbearably horny. He doesn’t go to Tim, though, he goes and takes an ice-cold shower. Freezes himself until the tears come. Later, he looks at Tim sleeping fitfully by his side, and he’s ashamed. Again.

But it’s true, time goes on, hellish or not, happy or not, it still goes on. He thought it would never come, but their trip to the lake is now just three days away.

Today was fine. No freak-outs, no explosions. Quiet breakfast. His coworkers were very respectful, too - no suggestive remarks, no crude jokes. Nick wished him to have a good time, but no snickering or anything. Patted his shoulder, smiled. A good day. And the evening, too. Dinner. Good. Baked potatoes, something frenchy, very edible. It was good.

Tim is still in the kitchen, probably reading that fucking book… But ok, ok, if Tim needs it, Tim can read it. Tim believes in science. Reads horoscopes, believes in science. Thinks it can help. Ha! But fine, fine. Tim may read, let him read.

Tim is so good to him, it has to be acknowledged, has to be admitted. Tim is so good to him, and he is so horrible, he’s a disaster, a trainwreck… He’s disgusting. This eating all the time. These histrionics. This crying. And sweat, all the time, every morning. Disgusting.

Fuck, it’s hot again. Fucking August. Past 9 p.m., and still an oven outside. Shirt is drenched… Even underwear… Sweating balls… Ha-ha! Ha, what? Disgusting.

“I’ll go for a walk,” he mumbles, passing the kitchen. “I’ll be back.”

He grabs the keys from the table and goes to the door.

“I don’t think so,” comes from behind.

Armie turns and sees Tim standing in the hallway, arms akimbo.

“Fuck off,” he sneers, turns away and aims for the keyhole.

He doesn’t make it. Someone grabs his hand in mid-air, and a growl, terrifying, real growl blasts his ear, so close, Armie’s blood freezes.

Tim squeezes his wrist painfully and continues squeezing, until the hand opens and the keys fall on the floor, unpleasant sharp sound, that breaks strung-out silence in half.

The iron grip relaxes slowly. Armie looks at his trembling hand – the shock spreads through his body and soon he is shaking like a leaf from head to toe.

Tim steps away, silent, vigilant, and Armie feels suppressed violence in him, readiness to pounce at any moment, predatory alertness and will.

He can’t keep standing, he knows he can’t. He leans on the wall and slowly slides down, landing heavily on the floor, hugs his knees and sits like that, the way people sat during bombing raids. He waits for the bomb to drop.

Tim exhales noisily, picks up the keys from the floor and leaves. Armie hears him in the kitchen, hears a cupboard opening, then clinking of glass. A second later his alpha returns and, after a slight hesitation, sits on the floor, across the hallway from him.

Two glasses and a bottle of whiskey materialize in the space between them.

Tim pours and pushes one glass to him.

“Drink,” he says tiredly.

“No,” Armie doesn’t look up.

“Drink,” Tim repeats. “It’ll help a bit. And take off this jacket, it’s fucking hot.”

Armie glances at him furtively – Tim takes a big swallow and stares in his glass.

When he looks up, their eyes meet, and a brief exhausted smile passes Tim’s lips. “It’s alright, darling. It’ll be alright,” he whispers and drinks again.

And that breaks Armie. Falls on him like a concrete slab and crushes every bone. He doesn’t feel the tears, only their salty taste on his lips.

“It’s ok,” Tim says again. “Drink. Slowly.”

“I’m sorry, I’m… sorry, so… I’m…” Armie whispers wiping his eyes. “I’m so…”

“How could I miss this in April?” Tim wonders. “Fucking moron…”

Armie sniffs. “No, in April… You left before it started… And in April… It’s not always like that… It’s…” he looks at Tim desperately. “I swear… I mean, not a picnic, but…”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Tim nods.

“Eric?”

“No, Eric…” Tim frowns. “Well, he wasn’t fun to be around at this time, but… No,” he shakes his head. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” Armie stares at the floor.

“Look, I think I know what’s going on, I suspected it but… In September you’re going to see a psychologist,” he says suddenly.

“You want to institutionalize me?” Armie pales.

“No,” Tim raises his hand. “No. Please, calm down. Calm down. No one’s going to lock you up… And I _can’t_ do it - there are laws. But, again, I don’t want it and I don’t think there is a need. I’m talking about a psychologist, that’s…”

“No!” Armie interrupts. “I’m fine! I’m just… hormonal. That’s normal. I’m overreacting right now b…”

“You’re going,” Tim says firmly. “Aunt Deborah, she’s my mom’s cousin, more or less. She has an office on West End Ave, half of Broadway went through that couch. Nothing would scare her. You’ll be in good hands.”    

“I’m not insane!” Armie cries.

“No, you’re not,” Tim replies. “But you have a trauma. You have a trauma, and I can’t help you. I just… I can’t help you!” his voice is full of desperation.

“What trauma, Tim? I’m jus…”

“Liz.”

Armie’s face freezes.

“Liz,” Tim repeats. “What happened between you two. Armie…” He takes a deep breath, “If I’m correct, and I think I am, what’s happening to you right now is very simple – right now you think you’re in her place, and you know what’s happened to her, and you’re _terrified_.”

Armie feels nauseous. “This is sick, Tim.”

“No. No, it’s not. It’s just that for the first time you’ll have your heat with a male alpha, and heat is all about getting someone pregnant. By any means necessary almost. And for the first time, _you_ are that someone. And you know how strong those mating instincts are,” Tim swallows. “You’re scared I’ll hurt you. The way you hurt her.”

Armie stares at him and then just shakes his head.

“Where were you going just now?”

“I…” he says and stops.

“Armie, please…” Tim is pleading. “Please, if not for yourself, do it for me – go.”

“I’m sorry…” Armie whispers.

“For what?”

“I want to be…” he lowers his eyes, “to be…”

“Normal?” Tim smiles sadly. “You are. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just in pain.”

“I hate this so much…”

“I know,” Tim nods. “That’s why you need Aunt Deborah. I’m sure there are things you don’t want to discuss with me, but you have to discuss them with someone. And she’s great. You’re an artist, she’s dealt with artists all her life, she knows the terrain.”

“Your mom will know,” Armie says quietly and wants to cry.

“Only if you tell her yourself.”

“If she’s your mom’s cousin, that Deborah…”

“She’s a professional, Armie. If she babbled about her patients during family dinners, she’d lose her license. And don’t expect a discount, either. She’ll give us her usual rate. My folks aren’t sentimental - business is business,” Tim smiles. “Yeah, she’ll fleece us good.”

Armie looks at it and then picks up his glass, drinks gingerly.

“I want to go to that lake,” he glances at Tim.

“We will,” his alpha smiles. “If nothing else, breath of fresh air will be good for you. We’ll go… and we’ll see. Both of us.

“But you have to understand certain things, because I think it’s a mess in your head. You hate your biology so much, you refuse to study it. That’s very dangerous.”

“Stop analyzing me,” Armie frowns.

“Ok,” Tim nods. “Ok. I’ve been reading these past several days… In reality, it’s a horror show what they were doing to omegas in the past. Well, relatively recently, in fact,” he says and gets silent. “The main problem is that there is violence encoded in the whole process. This submission thing… You’ll fight it, you know that?”

Armie nods tiredly.

“You know why?”

“Fear of pregnancy?” he guesses.

“Not exactly,” Tim pauses and rubs his forehead. “You have to be sure that you submit to the strongest alpha around, otherwise it’s not worth it for you: if you’re risking pregnancy, then the alpha must be strong, which means healthy, which means that the issue will be, too - it will survive, even if you don’t. Basically, you’ll fight me to make sure that I’m healthy enough to give you healthy kids. If you can throw me off, then I’m not worth the hassle.

“Unfortunately,” he continues, “it gave rise to the idea that omegas like to be forced. Or worse, they have to be. Even some doctors thought… Ok, we won’t go into that. It’s rubbish. It’s not… It’s not that, Armie. It’s the same… When I hold you down, you like it, right? And you like it because it communicates to you that you can rely on me, on my strength… And everyone wants a strong partner. Everyone. You don’t see drug addicts fighting off marriage proposals…

“Heat is not… It can be playful. It should be! It’s another roleplay, more realistic, rooted in animalism and instincts, but still a roleplay. And if we find this balance, between violence and play, that place where you feel safe, where you know… you remember that you’re loved, that there is no danger to you… If we find this balance, we’ll be ok. I promise you we’ll be ok,” Tim finishes softly.

He stretches his hand across the hallway, and Armie takes it without hesitation. They sit like that for a while. Watching each other, silent.

Armie finishes his drink. “Fuck, I want to be a beta,” he mumbles.

“You’d do the same,” Tim chuckles.

“No, life would be so simple then.”

“No, it would be the same,” Tim takes the bottle and pours them another round. “Do you want to be a guy or a girl? As a beta.”

“Umm, a guy.”

“Handsome?”

“Well… not entirely repugnant,” Armie smiles.

“Fuckable then,” Tim nods. “Ok. Then imagine that you have two choices – one chick, superhot and totally crazy, and another, plain but reliable. Who’d you choose?”

“For what?” Armie frowns.

“Aha!” Tim raises his glass triumphantly. “And that’s your biology in action, that’s the question - _for what?_ In fact, you’d probably fuck the first and marry the second, impregnating them both if you could get away with it; because there are short- and long-term biological investments, and each has its merits. Then the hot one would go on and marry a rich old geezer, rationalizing that yes, she’d probably throw up after every fucking, but at least her kid - who might be yours, too, in this scenario - would go to college. Still want to be a beta?”

“That’s… incredibly cynical view of humanity.”

“Humanity’s made of humans, and humans are made of genes. It has nothing to do with cynicism. Nothing to do with morality even – morality is man-made, and we’re what, probably one chromosome away from a chimpanzee… The hell of being a man is that you’re an animal with a soul,” he says grandly and frowns. “But mostly it’s just biology, just ‘life will find a way.’” Sigh. “With one exception.”

Armie smiles. “Us?”

“Us?” Tim snorts. “No. Lester.”

“Your boss?”

“Yes,” Tim nods, “hard to believe, but yes. He defies biology, because Mrs. Siskin… Fuck, Mrs. Siskin is a vision.

“She is from Brazil, you know? And I have no idea if Lester fished her straight out of the Amazon, but you see Mrs. Siskin, you’ll believe in mermaids. Paloma…” he says dreamily and closes his eyes. “Palominha…

“No, this woman… this woman is next level. Traffic-stopper. Poor Lester. She comes in, the temperature in the building rises. One time the server crashed. It’s like you feel it. Like… And then she’d come to your desk and, ‘Ah, Timmy, such a busy bee you are.’ And the voice… tropical, you know? And you’d be, ‘Fuck, Mrs. Siskin, I want to be good. I’m married, you’re married. Leave me alone, I want to be good.’

“And she knows,” he glances at Armie, “she looks at you and she _knows_. But can’t help it. She just can’t help it. Rack like that, you can’t help it…”

“Wow…”

“Yes,” Tim nods. “And she loves Lester, in spite of biology, in spite of all the sciences and simple common sense. Loves him. I mean, the fact that his dad is an appellate judge in the Second Circuit and old money and shit helps, but still… Lester? He can’t figure out Excel, how could he snatch _that_ I have no idea. No one knows. Inexplicable,” he shakes his head and finishes what’s left in his glass. “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” Armie replies, surprised.

“Good,” Tim pours himself more and raises his glass to Armie. “To Mrs. Si, who bears her double-D burden gracefully,” he proclaims.

“To Mrs. Si,” Armie smiles and they toast across the hallway.

“Wanna fight some more?” Tim sniffs.

Armie shakes his head.

“Wanna eat?”

Sigh.

“Alright, let’s go,” Tim gets up heavily, “there are potatoes from the dinner, and then I could make you an onion frittata,” he takes Armie’s hand and helps him to get up. “This August is too hot even for me,” he admits, wiping his sweaty forehead.

 

<> 

Some people get a carriage and a prince, others – godmother and a pumpkin. Life is fucking unfair. Get used to it, kids.

Armie looks at the beat-up orange Toyota that’s waiting for him and is reminded of this important lesson. So he asks the question on which countless marriages crashed and burned:

“Why orange?”

“Don’t start,” Tim grabs the bags from him and loads them into the trunk. “Just don’t start.”

“It was cheaper, wasn’t it?” Armie’s eyes narrow.

“Armie, get in the car.”

“I don’t like this car!”

Tim stops and looks at him across the trunk. “Get in the car,” he sighs.

“We’re planning a long trip and you’re pinching pennies!” Armie stands arms akimbo. “Is it even safe? What will we do, if it breaks in the middle of the road? Is it worth it? How much did you save, by the way?”

“We’re attracting attention,” Tim says.

Armie looks around, and no, they don’t – no one gives a damn.

“Nice try,” he smiles coldly. “Orange? Orange is a Lambo, or it’s a crime! You could have asked me, but you never ask me, you just do, and to hell with the consequences…”

“You think we bought enough condoms?” Tim interrupts him loudly, then his eyes drift and he smiles. “Good day, Mrs. Clarence.”

No…

No.

Please?

“Timothée!” Armie hears and counts to ten before slowly turning and finding his genteel neighbor, lacy goddamn parasol and summer gloves, two feet away from him.

“Mrs. Clarence,” he smiles weakly.

Ok, maybe she missed it – old age, street noises, traffic, too.

“Such a nice time for a romantic trip,” she smiles back, her eyes sparkling merrily.

Nope, she did hear it.

“Oh, we thought so, too,” Tim grins. “My darling gets cranky in this weather. Time for some fresh air.”

You shut up, Armie glares at him. Shut up, or I’ll climb over this car and throttle you. I’m just hormonal enough to do it…

“Edgar and I, we always took time off in August,” she sighs. “He didn’t like summers in the city either,” she looks at Armie compassionately.

“Did you try it?” Tim beams. “My cilantro advice?”

“Oh, indeed, indeed,” she smiles brightly. “You opened my eyes. I’d never think about it!”

“Well, one of these days I’ll come by, and you’ll tell me _your_ secrets,” Tim winks. “After all, you must know that a way to man’s heart is through his stomach. And my man here is not easy to please.”

“But you probably try,” she giggles.

“Oh, that I do,” Tim nods. “That I do. I’m becoming the best waffle maker in this city – our Armie is very particular about his.”

Why don’t you just kill me? Armie looks at him. You heartless, sharp-fanged monster…

“My Edgar loved them, too. Bless his heart…” she sighs. “But you should be careful, my dear – cholesterol levels,” she looks at Armie. “Moderation.”

“So true,” he nods.

“Well,” Tim smiles and comes up to her. “Then, when I’m back, it’s a date, Adelina,” he kisses her hand. “Right?”

“Oh, well, of course,” she grips her parasol.

“You won’t forget?”

“I won’t.”

“I won’t forget either,” he winks, finally releasing her hand, and strolls to the passenger door, opening it for Armie. “It’s such a pity we have to rush,” he sighs and looks at his omega expectantly.

Checkmate.

“You have a nice day, Mrs. Clarence,” Armie says drily, distracting her from salivating over his husband.

“Of course, of course…” she mumbles.

“You are…” Armie whispers, but has no words strong enough to finish. Huffing is childish, and overused. Also when your husband can growl, you may huff until your voice breaks won’t do you much good.

“Cholesterol, dear,” Tim mouths and slams the door after him.

“You’re fucking shameless!” Armie cries as soon as Tim gets in. “If that’s what you do in my presence, I wonder what goes on behind my back,” he glares. “Adelina? _Adelina_??? You have no limits, do you? How old is your Zara?”

“My Zara is sixty-four,” Tim murmurs, head on the wheel.

“And did you… Ah, right, I forgot, you have bigger fish to fry – your boss’s wife!”

“Are you having another episode?” Tim sighs.

“I’m not having… What episode? I’m not having anything. And this constant flirting under my nose – I’m not having it either!” Armie fumes. “When did you lose your virginity? To whom?”

“What?” Tim raises his head and looks at him incredulously.

“You heard me.”

“Look, I just wanted to get you in…”

“When?”

“Armie, this is ridiculous,” Tim smiles.

“Who was he?” Armie turns and looks at him. “This car won’t move an inch, until I know what kind of person is driving it.”

“The kind of…”

“Who?”

“Look, I don’t even remember their names… Why are we wasting time on this?”

“ _Their_ names?” Armie looks at him appalled.

“Well…” Tim frowns. “It’s not what you think.”

“I think ‘threesome,’” Armie cringes. “And I’m getting out,” he starts opening the door.

“No,” Tim grabs his elbow. “No threesomes. Come on! No, I just got lucky, ok? Beginner’s luck, that’s all. I… It was at a party, there was a girl… Took four seconds max, I swear. I was so hopped up, I thought I’d throw up – I went to the bathroom, and there was another girl there… And, well… Add another six seconds, I guess.”

“And you were?”

“Sixteen. Some girls thought I was cute then,” he shrugs. “Not the best rep, but it sent some traffic my way.”

“I married a player,” Armie confides to the fly crawling over the windshield.

“No, it was just dumb luck,” Tim touches his cheek. “Like when you’re in the shit, and suddenly some relative you never heard of dies and leaves you a million bucks. A windfall. I was stunned myself. It just happened to me.”

“Pfft, these things don’t just happen to you. Please!”

“In high school they do,” Tim smiles.

“Never happened to me.”

“Well, in truth, it never happened to me before or after, either. I didn’t get any for another six months after that. And those girls, they didn’t even acknowledge me at school later. They were both seniors,” he shrugs.

“Aha, and that’s exactly how you like them,” Armie nods. “Senior. Old. You’re into old people. You’re _obsessed!_ ” he looks at his alpha accusingly.

“No, I am… I mean I like… but not… I mean you…” Tim stumbles. “Well, I guess I like… but I don’t… Not exclusively. No, not exclusively,” he finally says. “There is a word for it, right?”

“Yes, there is,” Armie sneers. “Gerontophilia.”

“I don’t have it,” Tim replies firmly. “This I don’t have.”

“Tell yourself that…”

“Armie…” Tim smiles.

“What?”

“Look, if I’d met you at sixteen, I never even would have known what pussy looks like. I promise.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Cross my heart,” Tim makes a sign on his chest.

The fly gets bored with the conversation and flies away. Armie follows her with his eyes mournfully.

“I want to cry,” he says irritated. “And I don’t even know why…”

“Don’t cry,” Tim strokes his cheek again. “Don’t cry. Let’s make a deal: I won’t fuck our neighbor, if you won’t fuck Santini.”

“Which neighbor?”

“Any of them. I won’t touch any of them, regardless of age,” his alpha says soothingly. “That’s almost a hundred people. Ah, the sacrifices I make for you…”

He moves closer and gently tugs Armie by the neck. “Hey, hey. What is it? What is it?” Tim kisses his cheek, his ear. “We’ll be ok. I promise we’ll figure it out.”

“I hate being like that…” Armie whispers. “Stupid. So stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Tim takes him by the chin and makes Armie look at him. “You’re not stupid. You’re nervous. I’m nervous, too.”

“You really can drive?” Armie sniffs.

“Yes,” Tim smiles. “I really can drive.”

“Tell me honestly, you picked this orange car because it was cheaper?”

Tim bites his lip and then starts laughing quietly, lowering his head on Armie’s shoulder.

“No, and it’s not orange,” he glances at Armie, “it’s called Inferno.”

“Inferno?”

“Inferno,” Tim nods. “It was this or ‘Ooh La La Red,’ and I thought you’d eat me alive for any ooh la la. But you raised hell over Mrs. Clarence,” he smiles. “You’re like stock market – incalculable.”

“She surprises me, frankly,” Armie shakes his head.

“Mrs. Clarence? Why? She is alive. Why should she pretend that she isn’t?” Tim shrugs. “She is probably one of those unfortunate old ladies whose kids are afraid to say ‘fuck’ in front of her, fearing that it’ll kill ‘Mommy,’ and meanwhile she’s lived longer and seen more than all the other people in the room and hates to be suddenly treated like a child,” he sighs. “I bet she reads some raunchy stuff. I _hope_ she does. For her own sake.”

Armie watches him and purses his lips. “When we’re back, we’re going to museum.”

“Oh, fuck…” Tim groans. “What did I do now?”

“I suspect you have an eye for portraiture,” Armie says thoughtfully.

“When we’re back?” Tim cocks his head. “So we’re going after all?”

“Well,” Armie coughs, “if you can make this tub move…”

“I can move mountains for you,” Tim kisses his cheek quickly, then, looking into the rearview mirror, starts the car and carefully backs it from the curb.

Armie didn’t take any book with him and isn’t in the mood for reading right now, so instead he watches his husband. Tim is very careful on the road, but his nervousness is obvious from how tightly he squeezes the wheel for the first twenty minutes. Armie promises himself that he won’t distract him and stares in the window, while they are crawling up Harlem River Drive. The traffic is merciful – all who wanted to leave the city already did, majority is coming back, so they are moving at least.

He remembers Liz’s call yesterday, when Tim was in the shower. She is due in a week, according to the doctors, but she doesn’t really believe it – it seems like this pregnancy will never end. She misses seeing her toes, she misses her horse and high heels, she doesn’t miss a single tea or garden party she is invited to. That’s Liz.

They talked about that, then she finally asked, “He’ll take care of you, right?”

And Armie said that, of course, he would. She didn’t need to worry. They were fine.

He didn’t tell her they were leaving the city. Didn’t want to hear that it was a terrible idea – to go in the middle of nowhere for their first heat together.

Do you trust him enough? she would have asked.

Armie glances at Tim.

Yes, he thinks, yes. Blindly. There is no other kind, unfortunately. It’s myself I don’t trust that much…

But we’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out, too. It’s for-better-or-worse part. It’s marriage. It’s being a couple. I trust him more than I trust myself, and it’s a surprisingly good feeling…

They cross Manhattan and dive into northern New Jersey, where, if you believe the rumors, half the bodies are buried, half of them in half.

Tim concentrates, gripping the wheel again and periodically looking at the GPS map, trying not to miss their exit from the interstate that will lead them back to upstate New York, and then further and further north. So, it’s only when the soporific computer voice congratulates them with taking the right turn that Armie sees him relaxing and relaxes, too.

Next week, when we’re back, Liz will have given birth to her barrister already, he realizes suddenly.

_And you, my friend, might be pregnant, too, by that time_ , a dark voice whispers to him. _Do you trust him enough? Can you trust him?_

Yes, yes, he whispers back. Yes, I can, I should. I’ll go crazy if I don’t.

Armie took his pills, he checked the condoms. They’re safe. They are fine.

_But he is twenty-four. Only twenty-four…_

_Can you trust anyone so young with so much? When someone says that he’ll never hurt you, he’s always lying, even if only to himself…_

No, he’s different. His Tim is different. Considering all those fucked-up notions that he probably grew up with, he still learned something important – to take care, to protect, to provide…

He would never…

Armie notices the billboard they are passing – a bunch of young people dancing on the beach, beer bottles in their raised hands…

_F@#k college! Let’s get lit!_

Armie closes his eyes.

How can you trust someone so young? How?

What do you expect him to do, when your body goes crazy? When it feels an alpha close and wants to get pregnant? What do you expect him to do, when you start begging him to fuck you? What do you…

What the hell were you thinking? What the fuck are you doing?

Armie jumps feeling Tim’s hand squeezing his knee.

“You alright?”

“I’m…” Armie looks at him. “It’s just hot here,” he shakes his head.

Tim nods and turns the A/C knob further blue.

“It was working?” Armie frowns.

“Yes,” Tim looks at him sympathetically. “Want me to pull over?”

“No, no,” Armie shakes his head. “It’s fine. Honestly.”

Of course, his temperature rose again – he’s only in t-shirt but it feels like a three-piece woolen suit and tie.

“Mind if I turn on the news?” Tim asks.

“No, no,” Armie says again.

Let’s find out what’s going on in the world, let’s add some flavor to this private hell.

You think you’re fucked up? Listen to news, you’ll feel better.

Armie tries to ignore it, but he catches bits and pieces.

The sewer system in Harlem blew up and the streets are awash in matter too foul to mention, apparently; and – surprise! surprise! – the city budget doesn’t have the resources to fix it for another three months, by which time it’ll be winter and it’ll probably blow up again; but don’t despair, if you’re tired of this shit and can cough up a hundred mil you can now book yourself a seat on a rocket and send your ass into space, hoping that “stinking sky high” is just an expression.

What else? Another charlatan claiming to see the future couldn’t, unfortunately, predict an FBI agent at his door on a fine Sunday morning and was arrested for fraud. The above individual managed to swindle seven million dollars out of unsuspecting citizens, half of whom may have come from Harlem, having legitimate reason to be pissed about their present. In another exciting news: according to the latest studies, Brooklyn might be underwater in ten years, so sell now and move to Kansas, and hope that tornado won’t sweep you off the map.

And finally, heartwarming human interest story: Janine Colbert from Nebraska found a definitive proof that the spirit of her dead husband is communicating with her through their pet goat (male), after the animal emptied their liquor supply on the sly.

So forget about Brooklyn, for fuck’s sake, city planning commission has been trying to get rid of it for years, and it’s still there; forget about it and remember: every vote counts, and it is strongly suspected that Mayor Brussini will run next time, so go and vote – you can rely on him, Brussini can get shit done.

Well, maybe not in New York, but if you entrust the country to him, you’ll get tired of prosperity, you’ll need a break. Go and vote. Go!

Also, it looks like it’ll be sunny next week, and maybe until February. You never really know with this climate change. Ha! Bless you all, and stay tuned!

Armie has no idea about Tim, but that’s what he hears, more or less.

“Look in my bag,” Tim nods to the backseat, “inner pocket, there is a CD.”

Armie leans back and finds that Tim took no less than three books with him. On what Armie has no idea. He finds the CD and to his surprise sees that it’s the opera they went to recently.

“You liked it?” he looks at Tim, surprised.

“Thought it’d be good on the road,” Tim shrugs.

It’s not as good in recording as it’s live, of course, but it’s still that voice, merciless, piercing. Tim smiles at him and speeds up. But it’s not fast enough, Armie closes his eyes and smiles, you better blast it on a freeway: every note of those octaves – further up from the ground, every mile on speedometer – further away from old age.

Suddenly he is worried and looks at the dashboard, seeing to his relief that Tim is keeping the car within the speed limit.

Of course, I can trust him, he berates himself. I can trust him with everything. He is my alpha, my true alpha… I shouldn’t forget it, I shouldn’t forget…

He turns to Tim and smiles, and Tim growls softly, that familiar intimate sound – for your ears only – that constricts Armie’s throat and brings tears to his eyes.

Then his stomach wakes up.

“On the backseat,” Tim glances at him.

“What?” Armie blinks.

“I made sandwiches.”

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.”

“You’re hungry,” Tim sighs.

“We ate an hour ago.”

“Almost two now. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry, Tim.”

“There are gas stations every twenty miles.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats stubbornly.

“Armie,” Tim sounds frustrated, “you’re hungry, we both know it. Eat. You got up three times last night.”

“Did I wake you?” Armie swallows.

“No, I’m a clairvoyant,” Tim rolls his eyes and glances at him. “Are you ashamed to eat in front of me now? Honestly? Your body needs it. I can tell by your smell. Eat. I can pull over.

“Plenty of mayo, too. Your favorite,” he adds smirking.

This constant munching is as bad as constant sweating – his body demands fuel to convert it immediately into energy that it stores up for future use during heat.

Yeah, feed me, come on, his stomach yells again.

Armie grabs the paper bag from the backseat and finds stacks of sandwiches inside. “Your smell is changing, too, by the way,” he glances at Tim.

“No shit.”

“What?”

“Well, if you didn’t notice that I’ve had a boner for almost two hours, no need to tell you now,” Tim snorts.

“Can you drive?” Armie looks at him worriedly.

“Apparently.”

“Tim…”

“I’m fine.”

“Is it… different?”

“Different?” Tim frowns.

“I mean, compared to, um, the usual?”

“Do I want to jump you more than usual?” Tim glances at him. “Oh, yes.”

“We could stop somewhere…” Armie suggests and Tim looks at him surprised.

“Forget it,” Armie shakes his head. “I wasn’t thinking. Just…” He unwraps a sandwich and takes a bite, “It’s very good. Very good. Thank you. I didn’t see you making them. And… the napkins. Look on the road, Tim!” he cries because Tim is still staring at him.

“There are moments when I know that I don’t deserve you,” Tim shakes his head, his eyes returning to the road. “This is one of them.”

“Hm…”

“Did your wife react differently?”

Armie pretends not to hear and keeps eating.

“Well, she is a girl, I guess… And we are mates, so…” Tim coughs awkwardly. “The green ones are with cucumbers and Greek yogurt. Very refreshing,” he nods to the bag on Armie’s lap.

“We’re halfway there,” Armie glances at the GPS.

“Yes.”

Cucumber sandwiches are a marvel. The only downside is that no amount of napkins can save you from spilling that yogurt all over your fingers. Plus, Armie is really hungry, and that makes him clumsy. They are good these sandwiches, just delicious, he thinks, licking his fingers.

Suddenly Tim pulls over and stops.

“What? What is it?” Armie looks up, alarmed.

Tim unclasps his seatbelt and opens the door. “No, stay in the car,” he says, when Armie starts following him.

“Tim, what?..”

“Stay in the car,” Tim bangs the door closed.

Armie looks at him through the windshield, walking to and fro along the roadside. He appears to take calming breaths, wipes his forehead, then suddenly throws his head back and…

Is he screaming?

You can’t hear it because of the traffic, but it certainly looks that way.

Armie blinks.

“You ok?” he asks tentatively, when Tim finally gets back in the car.

“Next time I’ll jerk off three times for the road,” Tim sits staring ahead. “Or we take a plane. Or a flying carpet,” he looks at Armie.

“Are you?..”

“Don’t lick your fingers. Have some mercy,” Tim starts the engine.

Armie looks at his fingers. “It’s yogurt,” he shrugs. Then, because he is suddenly embarrassed over the mess he created, he gets mad. “Did you have to add yogurt?” he glares at Tim. “It leaks. Can you make something simple for once? Do we need haute cuisine on the road, too? And I’m to blame, right? It’s a mess here and I’m to blame. I told you I didn’t want to eat. What are you doing?” he cries.

“Praying,” Tim replies without opening his eyes.

“For what?”

“For patience…”

“None of this would have happened if we stayed in the city. All this fuss. For what? Would have been easier. Going all this way just to…” He pauses, seeing that Tim opened his eyes. “What, someone answered?”

“Yes,” Tim nods.

“Who?”

“Don’t know,” he looks at him tiredly. “Sounded like my grandpa. Said that divorce is for pussies.”

“Your grandpa! Always your grandpa! Oh, this drive will never end. We’ll never get there. This hellish car… We get married – you give me yellow tulips. Yellow! Now it’s orange car. Orange! I don’t like either color. I’m psychologically incompatible with them!”

“Anything else?”

“Yes!” Armie’s nostrils flare. “I hate zucchini!”

“You clearly need them though,” Tim sighs. “They lower blood pressure.”

“I don’t want to see them in my house ever again!” Armie gathers the napkins and stuffs them back into the bag. “Our first date – zucchini salad, now – zucchini something. Every damn day fucking zucchini! One-hit wonder in the kitchen, are you?” he angrily throws the bag to the backseat.

“What?” he looks at Tim. “We’ll sit here all day now? Drive!”

Tim grabs the wheel…

“And don’t you dare discuss the details of our intimacy with strangers!” Armie shakes his finger at him. “Don’t you dare! What I eat for breakfast… My waffles are my business! You hear me?”

Tim looks at his threatening finger, then at him and nods.

“And? Drive! We’ll never get out of New Jersey at this rate!” he says angrily and decides that it’ll be silent brooding from now on: energy efficient and scary, it’ll teach Tim.

Next time he looks up they’ve already crossed back into New York again and are moving further and further north.

 

<> 

They reach the gate, because of course there is a gate, that’s why people pay so much for this place – it can separate you from your own kind for a weekend.

An armed guard takes their IDs and disappears in his booth. Armie looks at the barbed wire going along the top of the wall, and it gives him the creeps. A place where rich people go to fuck in peace, he smiles sardonically.

Though, who is he to judge when his name is on the list of the guests here? The guard returns with their papers, tells them that firearms are forbidden on the property and asks Tim to open the trunk. They wait while he is scanning its contents with some device, and - when it’s all clear - receive a small map with directions to their house and a half-hearted salute.

“I think this guy hasn’t seen a Toyota in a while,” Armie snorts.

“Maybe,” Tim shrugs.

They follow the road running through a forest of pine and spruce. Armie watches the trees flickering by and finds that the territory is clearly taken care of – forest floor looks cleaner than your average living room.

He remembers reading in the booklet that the land originally belonged to some philanthropist that spent a chunk of his fortune on creating this lake for his beloved husband, a classicist, who called it Galani, Greek for light-blue. Apparently, they were quite happy here, but their great-grandson would be later jailed for market manipulation and sell the majority of estate. That last part wasn’t mentioned, of course, Armie was simply curious and did some research.

What would grandpa think about his family nest being turned into an expensive love hotel? he muses. Some of these pines look old enough to have been planted by the man himself…

Tim takes the right turn and they follow a separate road leading to their residence. Armie glimpses the lake beyond the trees, sparkling merrily under the sun. A gift from one man to another, it’s now shared by hundreds of people who come and stay for a while in those eight houses that were built on its shores. Capitalism doesn’t fancy grand gestures, he smiles sadly. Those cherry orchards, those lakes… Times are different, a tad smaller. 

Their house comes into view - a two-story building that seems entirely made of glass with its wrap-around window walls. You can’t see the interior, but the effect of the aquarium doesn’t leave you.

Tim parks under the porte-cochere extending from the side and they are suddenly face to face with Galani, so huge that you can’t be sure you see the other shore.

“We’re here,” Tim says quietly.

“We are,” Armie nods.

They are quiet, looking at this piece of fallen sky, dazzled by unfamiliar silence.

“Should we…” Tim glances at him.

“We should,” he replies firmly and gets out of the car.

They grab their suitcases from the trunk and are rounding the corner of the house, when Tim stops suddenly.

“Oh, hell,” he swears quietly and steps behind Armie. “Haven’t greeted a chick with a hard-on in years,” he grumbles.

Armie looks and sees a young woman waiting for them at the main entrance door. Dove gray pant suit, blonde hair gathered into neat chignon, she looks surprisingly formal and strict, like a school marm, and he reminds himself not to call it “love hotel” in her presence. Were words “heat retreat” mentioned anywhere in the booklet?

“I hope she won’t take it personally,” Tim reappears from behind, his shirt strategically untucked.

“Something tells me she’s used to it around here,” Armie smirks. “Can you hold it?”

“I did so far,” Tim rolls his eyes. “But if she offers us a discount, I’ll come for sure. Just out of gratitude,” he says and starts walking.

“Monsieur Chalamet,” the woman notices them and smiles. “Mr. Chalamet,” she nods to Armie. “How was your trip?”

Armie ignores her completely, busy glaring at Tim.

_Mr. Chalamet???_

You bastard.

“It was very nice,” Tim smiles brightly, ignoring Armie in his turn.

“My name is Siri,” the blonde continues. “I will be your personal assistant for the duration of your stay with us. May I help you with your luggage?”

“Our luggage?” Tim is surprised. “No, no, we can carry it,” he glances at their small suitcases and frowns, then turns back to the woman. “Siri? Is that… Indian?”

Her smile slips a bit, but she corrects herself immediately. “It’s just a shortened version. To avoid confusion,” she explains.

“Short for what?”

Just leave her alone, Armie glances at him. She is corporate, she can be whatever and whoever you want her to be. She isn’t here to make friends.

“Saoirse,” she admits reluctantly.

“You’re Irish?” Tim beams.

“Um… yes,” she frowns, her bright blue eyes darting to Armie for a second. “Is that alright?” she asks.

“Sure,” Tim shrugs. “I have Irish relatives. _Is fearr Gaeilge briste…_ ” he winks. “In every way.”

She pauses again, but then smiles politely. “Of course, monsieur,” she nods. “May I show you the house?”

Now, that’s customer service elevated to an art. Armie applauds silently. Gina with her constant refrain of “leave your opinions at home, people” would love this girl, he thinks.

I know you, he looks at this Saoirse, I recognize you. I spent enough time hearing that I should be “neutral or else” to know exactly what you’ve been through, my dear.

You get a call at 4 a.m. from a client who wants ninety-three black male cockatoos delivered on his doorstep in half an hour, you say, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Just give me a minute.” And you get them. You don’t know how, you can’t imagine why, but you get them.

You won’t express surprise, disagreement or judgement. You won’t ask uncomfortable questions. You won’t mistake it for a mutual secret or trust. You won’t treat your clients as your friends, though you’ll be unflinchingly friendly, and you won’t let yourself think that they care about you - you know they don’t; but you’ll make sure that they like you, because in a service economy you’re part of the service and you know it.

Armie remembers one of his first projects, a woman whose name he can’t remember now, who asked him to furnish her bedroom with statues of naked young boys, “no older than twelve, please.” He didn’t say anything, then went straight to Gina.

“What should I do?”

“What should you do?” his boss stared at him. “Find them for her. Try antique shops. If not here, then Paris, Amsterdam - they usually have this stuff.”

“But, I mean… isn’t it… weird?”

Gina sighed. “So, you were thinking what?”

“I don’t know…” he shrugged. “Call the police?”

“Call the police?” Gina’s brows shot up. “And say what? ‘We have this gal, she loves them young and stone cold. Do something!’ Give me a break!” She shook her head, “Find the damn statues for her, and read the manual again. Neutral, Armie. Learn to be neutral.”

And we read different manuals, you and I, he looks at Tim now. You come from a different species entirely – you are one of those I-ask-questions-here guys. Giant machinery of the state behind your back, you have the luxury not to care if you’re liked or not.

Leave her alone, Tim. She probably learned her lessons the hard way. Even if she wants to be friends, she knows that if three minutes later you slap her ass and call her “babe,” she’ll have to swallow it, and what kind of friendship is that?

It’s not your lack of charm, he squeezes Tim’s shoulder and smiles at him, she simply can’t afford to trust you.

“The floor heating is adjustable for every room,” Saoirse tells them when they enter the great room on the first floor. “You’ll find a panel – like this,” she motions to an electronic display on the wall, “where you can choose the temperature you’d like or turn it off altogether. There are three fireplaces – here, in the dining room and in the master bedroom on the second floor, all automatic.”

There is something like a dark pyramid on a platform in the center of the room, and when she switches it on, a line of jagged fire runs from bottom to top along its sides, and it looks like a burning Christmas tree to Armie.

“If you enjoy open fire, there is a gazebo in the patio with a fire pit in the center.”

It’s a big place – white walls, light wooden floors, a huge white sofa and white armchairs around the fireplace in the center. Window wall of the façade combined with raised ceiling fills it to the brim with air and light, making you feel small and slightly cold. But you’ll never call it cheap, that’s for sure. Every inch of this emptiness costs.

You can sense it when the space isn’t lived in, Armie looks around. Life brings chaos, and it’s pristine here.

Saoirse waits for their questions, but when they just shrug in unison, she nods and leads them into another room.

“The kitchen,” she smiles and motions in the direction of the counter. “The fridge was stocked according to your specifications, M. Chalamet. And you’ll find a complimentary bottle of champagne in the wine fridge here,” she nods towards it.

“Cooktop has several modules,” she comes up to the stove, “including teppanyaki grill, steamer and a fryer. The manual, should you need it, will be here,” she opens a drawer. “Also dishwasher, microwave, blender, toaster, coffeemaker, multicooker, sous vide machine, ice cream maker, juicer and pasta maker are all available to you,” she opens a couple of cupboards to show them.

“Fresh fruits and vegetables could be delivered at any hour. My phone number is the first on the list that can be found on the wall in every room. Don’t hesitate to call whenever you need. If your cell phone connection is sketchy here, there is a landline in the house. A simple ‘123’ will also go straight to my phone.”

She looks at them expectantly.

“Great,” Tim says distractedly.

Armie follows his eyes and sighs. Just what they need – his husband, as indifferent to female form as he is currently, seems on the verge of spontaneously combusting over a multicooker.

“May I show you the second floor?” Saoirse frowns slightly.

“Yes, please,” Armie nods and practically drags Tim out of the kitchen.

They reach the stairs, and she stops pointing to the back wall, all glass too, through which a stone garden is visible.

“Patio,” she says. “Here you’ll find a barbecue grill and charcoal,” she goes to the wall and slides open one of the panels to reveal a small storage space behind.

They nod.

“There,” she motions to the door to the left of the stairs, “is the gym.”

They nod again.

She waits for any questions again, and when there are none, smiles politely. “Please follow me.”

On the second floor, they go straight to the master bedroom, and Armie can’t help staring at the large bed on a wooden platform that sits in the center of the room, with another fireplace in front of it, and an obligatory window wall opening to the balcony.

“Bathroom,” Saoirse points to the door. “Thermostat is checked and cleaned every three months, but if you encounter any problems, please call me.

“There is a hot tub on the balcony,” she slides open the door and steps outside. “If you have concerns about privacy, you can pull up the shield. Here,” she presses something under the rail and it starts rising slowly to create another glass wall, shoulder-high. “One-way glass,” she explains. “All the windows on this level are,” she adds, pushes the button again and the shield slowly collapses.

Tim takes his hand, and they are mesmerized by the lake again.

“The reservoir was cleaned only last year,” Saoirse says quietly. “The water is safe for swimming. Life vests, if you need them, are on the first floor, in the same storage as the grill. Under the jetty there is a dinghy,” she points to the short wooden bridge extending into the lake. “Oars included,” she adds, and Armie catches a fleeting smile on her lips.

“You have fish here?” Tim asks.

That genuinely surprises her. “Yes,” she frowns, making Armie think that no one ever asked her about it. Who’d come here to fish?

“What, you can fish?” he looks at Tim smiling.

“Of course,” Tim shrugs.

“Hm, yes, we have fish,” Saoirse looks at him worriedly. “We have, um, cod, sturgeon… um, cod and… starfish, flatfish…”

You poor dear… Armie sighs and decides to save a fellow human from her agony, before she magically transports dolphins to upstate New York, too.

“That’s very impressive,” he nods.  

“What do you mean ‘flatfish’?” Tim stares at her, amazed. “It needs oceanic depths.”

“You think we’ll go fishing?” Armie squeezes his hand.

“Well, no…”

“We won’t use the dinghy,” he turns to the woman. “Thank you.”  

“Of course,” she says and sounds relieved.

But the fish topic refuses to go away.

“Her name is Tangie, short for Tangerine,” Saoirse smiles brightly and points to a huge orange fish that seems a bit lonely in her big aquarium.

They returned downstairs and Armie thought the tour was over, but no, there is this Tangie.

“She needs to be fed every two days. The indicator here will remind you – if the light is red, then it’s chow time,” Saoirse winks and that sudden levity scares Armie for some reason. “If the fish dies, the cost will be added to your final bill,” she delivers with impeccable politeness and looks at Tim.

That’s what you get for showing off, Armie groans silently.

“Fish food included?” Tim’s eyes narrow.

“Fish food included,” she nods.

Armie watches him and recognizes the expression – his alpha is calculating the price of fish abuse in this place. Apparently he concludes that Tangie isn’t cheap and hence must be spared.

“We’ll feed it,” he announces.

“Excellent,” Saoirse smiles sweetly. “Do you have any questions so far?

They look at each other and shake their heads.

“Alright.” She goes to her briefcase that was left on the coffee table and takes something out. “This is the key, there is a copy in the master bedroom,” she gives it to Tim. “Also there is a master security code,” she retrieves a small card with instructions and leads them to an electronic panel beside the entrance door. “This code secures the second set of locks on doors and windows and activates motion detectors around the house. If you enter it, and any of the lights on the scheme starts winking, then something was left open, usually it’s a window. If you intend to keep it open, press ‘ignore.’

“Unfortunately, motion detectors outside are sometimes triggered by a deer; though, they kept away lately. But if it happens, please don’t get alarmed - security guards monitor the signal too and will investigate immediately. Of course, they will be respectful of your privacy,” she adds.

“Deer?” Tim smiles. “Cool.”

“Yes,” she nods. “Do you require one?”

“One… deer?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“What for?” he stares at her.

Saoirse for some reason glances at Armie. “Recreational purposes…”

“No,” Tim shakes his head, “I don’t require deer for… any purposes.”

“Very good,” she smiles politely. “I believe I should leave you now. My phone number, as I said, can be found in the list. Your needs are my priority during your stay with us, so, please, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you,” Armie smiles, “you’re very kind.”

He squeezes Tim’s hand and Tim wakes up. “Thank you,” he says, still frowning.

“I hope you’ll enjoy your time here,” she says closing her briefcase, and they accompany her to the door.

“Goodbye,” she smiles to Armie, and there is a trace of warmth there.

“Goodbye,” he smiles, too.

Then she turns to Tim and after a slight hesitation says, “ _Sla_ _́_ _n agat_.”

Tim is surprised. “ _Sla_ _́_ _n go fóill_ … Saoirse,” he replies quietly.

They watch her walking down the paved path, until she disappears among the trees.

“And suddenly you know Gaelic,” Armie looks at him.

“Couple words here and there,” Tim shrugs.

“Say something.”

Tim is looking at the lake. “ _Is ceol mo chroí thú_ ,” he whispers finally.

“What does it mean?”

“You know what it means,” he turns and kisses Armie softly. “By now you know.”

 

<> 

“We need this thing at home,” Tim scoops up a handful of foam and blows on it lazily, sending rainbow bubbles flying in the air.

After Saoirse left, they didn’t know what to do with themselves. Unpacked, wandered aimlessly around the house, checked the patio, stared at the stone garden, Tim explored the kitchen, Armie turned on the fireplace downstairs, turned it off, turned it on… It was so quiet. After constant cacophony of the city, this silence seemed unnerving. Tim suggested they walk around the premises, and they took a stroll through the pine forest surrounding the house. The territory was big enough, so it took them some time to reach a low chain link fence marking the border between their place and the neighboring house.

Armie couldn’t help noticing the warnings attached to the fence: “Don’t trespass. Please, respect your neighbor’s privacy. Administration won’t be responsible for any possible interpersonal conflicts between the guests.” In other words, if a deranged alpha from the next house perceives you as a threat and tries to maul you, you’re on your own, pal.

He remembered Saoirse mentioning it several times – privacy - and realized that she was really saying it to Tim, meaning that no one would touch his omega here. She never shook Armie’s hand, either, never approached or engaged him in any way, addressing most of her questions to Tim, going out of her way to show that she wasn’t a threat.

Insulting, but wise: alphas are aggressive as it is, and during heat they can be really dangerous.

Tim read the warning, too, but didn’t say anything, and they went back as silently as they came. He asked Armie if he wanted to eat, but Armie’s appetite had started waning, a sure sign that his heat was just hours away, and so he refused and returned to the patio to stare at the stones some more, seeking to be alone and slightly ashamed for it.

He sat there until it started growing dark and Tim came saying that he had a surprise, which turned out to be a bubble bath: blood red petals sprinkled on the foam and thick white candles all around.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Armie joked, looking at this romantic picture straight out of some Hollywood movie.

“I can’t see vermilion,” Tim winked and raised the hem of his t-shirt. Armie froze for a second and then lifted his arms and let his alpha slowly undress him.

His back lying on Tim’s chest, he feels his alpha’s foot rubbing his calf and smiles.

“We don’t have space for a tub,” Armie replies and closes his eyes.

“Well, I know a designer,” Tim kisses his ear. “He could help.”

“Expensive?”

“Kinda, but I could get a special rate for us.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, he likes me.”

“He just likes your cooking…”

“Nah, it’s my ass he’s after.”

“Be careful,” Armie warns.

“Of course,” Tim’s lips slide down to his neck. “But we need a tub.”

“Bend over then,” he laughs quietly, “no way around it.”

“No,” Tim sighs, “no way around it.”

Armie looks around, at the black marble walls and floors, carefully chosen to accentuate the sparkling white tub, and thinks that he would choose a different shade of gilding for the fixtures. This one looks too shiny, looks too much like gold, when it isn’t, when it’s just five millionth of an inch of gold leaf over chrome.

This house, beautiful as it is, it tries too hard to look like something that it isn’t. Trees are real, the lake, too, but not the house, a space without character because it serves too many masters.

“Am I too heavy?” he asks and means something else.

“No,” Tim draws him closer, “you’re just right.”

“You…” Armie closes his eyes momentarily. “I know it’s not easy for you.”

“Yeah,” Tim chuckles, “you’re quite a handful.”

“Well,” Armie opens one eye, “I heard that love is never having to say you’re sorry.”

“What a wonderful policy,” Tim smiles and bites his ear. “Does it cover me, too?”

“No, you’re best in groveling mode.”

“Am I? Then forgive me my zucchini, I beg you,” Tim says tearfully.

“Ok, that…” Armie frowns. “It was nonsense, I admit. Forget it. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Some don’t like squash, it’s fine.”

“No, I… It will sound so silly. It _is_ silly.” He remembers what he said and it’s… What is wrong with him? What the hell is wrong with him? “You’re a wonderful cook, Tim,” Armie turns and looks at him. “Wonderful.”

“Thank you,” Tim kisses his temple.

“I’m thinking about it – I can’t believe I said it. I mean… you won’t believe it. I don’t believe it… I…” he takes a deep breath. “The thing is I was jealous, Tim…”

“I know,” Tim chuckles.

“You know?”

“Yes. I just can’t figure out why.”

“But… how do you know then?” Armie frowns.

“I can smell it.”

“What? Jealousy?”

“I guess, but it’s…” Tim pauses. “I didn’t know what it was at first. It’s sharp, a bit vinegary… Combative. Yes. It’s like, you know, when cats assume this pose – crazy eyes, curved back, bristled fur: come here, you fucker, I’ll fuck you up,” he smiles. “When I smell it, I always think about catfights. And you’re usually like this, when it’s about me and someone else. So I figured that it’s your battle smell. You’re territorial as hell, darling,” he leans and kisses Armie’s shoulder. “Though, again, I still have no idea what it’s got to do with zucchini.”

Ok, forget the zucchini, it’s not about them, anyway. If Tim didn’t get it, better. No need to tell him that Armie freaked out over some fruit seller he’s never even seen.

“What else can you smell?” he asks alarmed and sits up.

Tim grabs his shoulders and tugs him back. “Not your thoughts, calm down.”

“Is it an alpha thing?”

“Um, no… For example, my mom usually knows that my dad is getting sick before he does. It’s about paying attention. You can do it, too.” 

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Pay attention,” Tim kisses his cheek.

“So you know everything…”

“No, Armie, no,” Tim strokes his chest soothingly. “I simply respond to the signals you’re sending. I’m your mate, I’m supposed to be sensitive to it. And I didn’t feel it at first, or rather I felt the difference, but I didn’t really understand it. I’m better at it now, that’s all.”

Armie turns around and sniffs his neck.

“I just smell you and some citrus.”

“Bergamot,” Tim smiles. “It’s from the bubbles.”

“Well, I don’t smell anything else!”

“But there’s nothing to smell - I’m not scared, upset or aggressive now. I’m not in any kind of distress at the moment,” Tim shrugs.

“You’re horny though.”

“Busted,” Tim chuckles. “Still, I’m passively horny, so to speak, I’m not going to do anything about it. But remember when I chased you to the bedroom? Or, I don’t know, first time we kissed?”

“Yes,” Armie shivers.

“Aha, you see? Your body remembers it even better than you do. My smell was different then, and you knew that it was different, you just… I guess, you didn’t have words for it,” Tim hugs him closer. “I’m horny,” he says quietly after a moment, “and that’s what’s driving you insane these days.”

“What do you smell?” Armie whispers.

“Fear,” Tim sighs. “Mostly I smell fear.”

 

<> 

There is red mass all around him, thick and hot, sucking him in, dragging him down inch by inch. He opens his mouth and tries to scream. He can’t. There are no coordinates, no south, east or west, just up and down, and up is black, and down is red, and give or take another minute, he’ll be swallowed by this burning red.

Vermilion.

Blood boiling vermilion.

Inside and outside – the same, just a thin film of skin in between. His heart, blood red, is beating so hard, he can barely breathe. He is burning alive, suffocating, terrified. He needs to move, but his hands and feet are… Where are his feet? Do they even exist?

He opens his mouth to scream again and the red pours in, because it’s sand and he didn’t notice. The blackness presses down, sits on his head, covers his eyes.

Black and red meet.

The skin is the only thing that’s left to feel anything, and it’s burning, it’s burning so painfully…

Then the white comes like a blow. The ceiling. He knows it’s the ceiling, but he can’t remember the word for it at the moment.

He turns his head and sees a dark shape rising up beside him. An alpha. The stench is unbearable, nauseating.

An instinct, ancient and dark: he does it before he knows that he’s doing it – kicks with such force that sends this alpha flying. Something falls and breaks. There is a thud, a moan. There is a headache. There is hell, inescapable, predetermined. There is terror, red and black. A howl. His? Is he howling?

The contours harden, become shapes. For a second he sees Tim on the floor, gulping air, breath knocked out of him. He sees Tim, holding his side in pain, trying to get up…

He sees… _What have I done?_ _what have I done?_

The alpha is moving, dragging himself and… _you touch me, I’ll tear you to shreds, I’ll rip your heart out, I’ll…_

But he is moving away, crawling on his hands and knees. Good.

Armie follows him with his eyes and hisses, a strange inhuman sound. A warning. A threat. A promise.

Touch me and I’ll kill you.

Come near me and I’ll scratch your eyes.

The pain hardens, finds the center, blossoms in his gut. It contorts his body, and there is rush of wetness between his legs.

Responding wave of alpha’s arousal hits him like a wall of bricks. The smell is terrifying, it makes him want to vomit. That’s what he is after, this alpha. That’s what they are all after, all the alphas within ten miles from here. He needs to hide, but where? There is nowhere to hide.

He hears voice, coming from the corner, and zeroes in on that dark figure huddled there, waiting like a spider in the net. A predator. A threat.

Another spasm. He claws the shit – pain, slow like smoke, is swirling in his gut, between his legs. His cock is standing up like a hot poker. His body is betraying him, it calls for that alpha to come and take, it wants to be used as a breeding machine that it has become, and the black terror in his brain is just an obstacle to be overcome. This body plays by the rules, the mind be damned. This body is cunning, relentless, strong. It knows instincts, it doesn’t give a damn about anything else. But his brain is a tough nut to crack.

He is lying, rolled into a ball, looking at Tim across the room, sometimes recognizing him as Tim, and he wants to say _please, come here, please, please, please…_ But he can’t say it, because Tim morphs into an alpha, splits and becomes a dozen of them… Hungry, brutal, insatiable, they tear into the helpless flesh and laughing… A scene from a porno that he saw ages ago… degradation, pain, rape…

He wants to say, “Come here.” He whispers, “Please, don’t touch me. Please, please, please, don’t touch me… Please…”

In response his awakened womb sends another wave through his body, and he is dripping on these satin sheets, humiliated and scared.

He sees Tim moving, and his heart is ready to burst from fright.

“Please, please, no… no… no…”

Tim says something quietly and slowly stretches his hand to reach the balcony door to push it open. Stream of fresh predawn air rushes into the room, falling like a blanket on Armie’s burning skin.

His alpha returns into his corner and sits there, looking at him – ten feet apart, light years away.

Don’t leave me, Armie wants to say.

“Please, don’t touch me…” he pleads.

Darkest before the dawn, he is shaking so hard by the time this first heat wave is over, his teeth are chattering, but Tim doesn’t doesn’t leave. Armie sees him grabbing the pillow from the armchair nearby and covering his lap. When he comes, Armie gags because the scent is revolting, but Tim doesn’t move any closer, and that lets him concentrate on his own pain, relax just enough to allow himself to rock with it, roll with the punches.

He has no orgasm. When it’s over, it’s just over, like a fog lifting over the wreckage and revealing the devastation that’s been left behind. Suddenly very cold, Armie hugs himself tighter, hiding his nose between his knees, and closes his eyes, only to look frantically when he hears movement.

Tim gets up slowly and takes a step towards the bed.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says quietly and watches for Armie’s reaction.

Armie nods.

Tim returns with two warm wet towels and puts one on the edge of the bed.

“Do you want me to close it?” he motions to the balcony.

Armie nods again. After a while he crawls tiredly to the edge of the bed and takes the towel to clean himself.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads finally.

“Of course, I won’t,” Tim replies from his corner.

All next day and into the night he keeps that promise.

 

<> 

He is exhausted. Small green lamp is shining in the corner and the light blurs in his eyes, the room grows and shrinks when he squints, the window wall is black and impenetrable. It’s late into the night, but he can’t master the will to turn his head and look at the clock on the wall.

The dryness of his skin irritates him. Tim brought him another towel a couple of hours ago and he wipes his face and chest. He is no longer embarrassed to clean himself in front of his mate. He is long past that.

There is a small moth flying around the lamp, diving under the lampshade and reappearing, having miraculously survived the heat of the bulb. The door to the balcony is slightly open and cool night air flows in.

_Don’t be so stupid, get away from the lamp. Why are you so stupid?_

Again and again and again, it flies to and fro, its wings beating madly the closer it gets to the light. It won’t leave until the morning, until Tim switches off the lamp. If it’s still alive by morning, that is.

_Why are you so stupid? Why?_

His breath catches and he feels another spasm coming, another wave of pheromones is released. With his side vision, he notices Tim shuddering from impact.

“Just fuck me,” he mumbles groggily. “Fuck me. I don’t care anymore…”

He doesn’t listen to the answer, he knows what it will be.

_Somebody, please, switch off the lamp…_

<> 

“Fuck me! Just fuck me! Please! I’ll be good! I don’t care! Fuck me!”

“No, Armie, no!”

“It’s useless… it’s… we’re wasting time! It’s not working… Just fuck me and be done with it.”

“It _is_ working!”

“No, it’s not… it’s useless… I don’t care…” Armie squeezes his throat, claws his chest. “Find a rope… there should be a rope… something… just tie me up… just… who cares… knock me out… Tie me up…”

“Darling, please,” Tim swallows. “We’re almost…”

“I don’t care!” Armie shouts. “I don’t fucking care! I can’t stand it! I’ll be good…” he grabs Tim’s arm. “I’ll be good. Tie me up, put something in my mouth! I’ll be good…”

“Stop it!” Tim tries to shake him off. “Stop it! It’s working… We need to wait… Stop it!”

“Do you love me? You said you loved me!” Armie squeezes his wrist. “Fuck me! Fuck me… I…” he gags. “I’ll be good…”

“Stop!” Tim finally frees his hand and pushes him back on the bed. “You’re not even hard…” he says and his voice quivers.

“Who cares?” Armie laughs. “Who the fuck cares?”

“Take it, you’re burning up,” Tim hands him the towel.

Armie snatches it from him and throws it back with force, hitting Tim square in the face. “I don’t need a fucking towel! I need a hard cock up my ass, that’s what I need! No, no, no, please, please, don’t leave me! Please!” he cries seeing Tim getting up.

“I’m not leaving you!” Tim moves closer. “I’m not leaving you. I promise.”

“I’ll be good…” Armie looks at him pleadingly. “I won’t fight, I swear to you, I won’t fight. I won’t hurt you. Please…”

“Shhh, darling, shhh…” Tim takes his hand. “It’s alright. It’ll be alright…”

“It won’t work, Tim. I can’t wait… I’m fucking dying here! Don’t you see? I’m dying!”

“Armie, look at me. Look at me,” Tim cups his chin. “Look where I am…”

Armie blinks - Tim is sitting on the edge of the bed, by his side.

Tim smiles, “I’ve been here the whole time. You didn’t even notice. It’s working. We’re fine.”

“But how much longer?” Armie moans.

“I don’t know,” Tim strokes his hair. “We’ll see.”

“Tim, please…”

“No.”

 

<> 

It’s day again.

Which one? First? Second? Fifth?

He lost the track of time by now. He knows he’s slept a couple of times for a couple of hours.

Night memories come back – words, threats, pleadings, Tim’s face full of pain. The shame grips his throat and brings tears to his eyes.

_What have I done? What have I done?_

He drags the blanket over his face and cries silently, hastily wiping his eyes when he feels Tim sitting on the bed beside him.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Tim asks quietly.

Armie gathers the strength that’s left and lifts the blanket, revealing his face. “No,” he says avoiding his eyes.

His alpha strokes his shoulder gently. “A towel?”

Armie looks at him. “I didn’t want it like this,” he whispers. “I wanted it to be special for you, too. And you did all this, found this house, and I am… I thought we’d run out of condoms and we’re running out of towels…” he says bitterly. “You deserve better.”

“I have exactly what I want,” Tim replies.

“Oh no, don’t… Cuss me out better, just not… That’s not what you want, we both know it.”

“You feel better, though.”

“I’m not better!” Armie sneers. “I’m not better, I’m just slightly more lucid. And for how long? Half an hour more?”

“Last time, I held your hand, you let me,” Tim disagrees. “It’s progress.”

“Progress?” Armie laughs. “I can hold my husband’s hand – that’s progress for you?”

“It is.”

“When we’re back, I’ll apply for hysterectomy,” he says firmly.

“Aha, that’s the solution. Of course.”

“It _is_ the solution!”

Tim turns away. “Like killing sparrows?” he asks looking at the lake. “After them the locusts come, and after that comes famine. You can’t fool nature, it will retaliate.”

He takes the towel and starts wiping Armie’s face, then leans and kisses his cheek. “You see?” he smiles. “Progress.”

Armie feels so old looking at him, feels a hundred: an invalid receiving sponge baths from his young husband.

It’s not fair. Tim’s face is gray from exhaustion, dark shadows under his eyes, his movements sluggish. Who knows when was the last time he ate? When did he sleep? Did he?

Armie suddenly remembers Tim saying how it could be different, that he could meet his mate under other circumstances: him, an old man sitting in the park, feeding pigeons, and catching a scent of a child, realizing, understanding… too late… too late…

But it is too late. It is. Only that old man isn’t Tim, it’s Armie. Old, worn out and useless.

What did I ever give him? What did I bring into his life? Nothing. Only problems. I won’t even give him kids… Useless. Here is a perfect word for me – useless. I thought it wasn’t too late, but it is. He is young and strong, and I’m old and selfish, because it’s selfish to keep him. He has wings and I have scars. He has a future, and I have too much past.

What can I give him?

Nothing.

He feels a light kiss on his cheek and opens his eyes.

“Don’t cry,” Tim whispers. “Don’t cry, darling. You’re my darling, don’t cry.”

“I’m so tired…”

“I know,” Tim starts stroking his hair, and Armie crawls and puts his head on his lap. “Do you know what I could have been doing right now?” Tim looks down at him and smiles.

“Right now, I should have been returning from my trip to Europe. No one waiting for me at the airport, because I told Mom not to and she listened to me. Then I’d go to my messy apartment, suitcase stuffed with more souvenirs than there are people to give them to. And that night I’d probably buy a bottle of wine and create another profile on a dating site, only to receive a bunch of _ewwws!_ and questions like whether my dick is as small as I am.

“But look what I have instead. I have a husband… a partner… a friend… My mate.

“Armie, if someone came to me now and said that I’d be stuck at my current desk for the rest of my life: Lester bitching in my ears that I used the wrong font in my report again, air conditioner one day freezing my ass, next leaking all over my papers – all that, but I’d have you… I’d say yes, darling, I’d agree to that. Maybe not in a heartbeat, but I’d agree to that. Like my father did. And I’d never regret it. Look at me, I’d never regret it.

“I know economics, and economics is all about value – the only priceless things are those that are unique. Like you. No matter how many other Armie Hammers there are in this world, you’re unique, and you’re priceless to me. And I’ll never be happier without you,” Tim sniffs.

“And we won’t run out of towels, there is a bunch of them there. All monogrammed. And we’re stealing a couple, when we leave. Just so you know.”

 

<> 

“Why can’t we have it like normal people, Tim?” Armie asks much later.

Tim turns his head and looks at him. “We have it… like we have it. Who knows what normal people have?” he sighs. “In my experience, they have much more than they declare, and not all of it pretty.”

Armie rolls over to him and Tim raises his arm to welcome him under his shoulder.

“Once we had a guy,” Tim looks at the ceiling. “A baker. We received a tip about him, so we checked. On the books, everything’s fine. I mean, not for the baker – on the books he’s on the verge of bankruptcy, it’s a miracle he’s still standing. Which is strange in itself because the business is great – you look, there are people there all the time.

“So, we sent a guy, undercover. He staked out the place for a week and noticed something – it’s like this bakery was the watering hole for the Red Sox fans. In New York. Suddenly. Like, every second customer – Red Sox beanie and red bandana around the neck. Girls, guys. As if they shopped in the same place, or something.

“Well, our guy went and dressed the same, came to that bakery, had no idea what to expect, bought a muffin. Paid a hundred bucks, didn’t receive change, but didn’t say anything either. Was sitting and thinking about it, ate that muffin…” he pauses and chuckles.

“It knocked him out. It was stuffed with OxyContin. The guy’s sister-in-law, the baker’s, she was a nurse - supplied him pills, he distributed. Later it turned out the doctor was on the take, too.

“And the baker, he’s really nice, you know? Very fine guy: husband, kids, golden retriever - all that white picket fence shit. Baked himself a bungalow in Dominica on drug trafficking, but otherwise very normal. All of them, very normal people, by your definition…”

Armie looks at him silently and then pushes himself up and kisses his lips, very softly, as if it could burn him. And when it doesn’t, he kisses him again, and then again.

“Do you want me to make love to you?” Tim whispers.

Armie nods.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

For a second he gets scared again. Tim turns and slides on top of him, one of his legs snakes between Armie’s thighs and pushes lightly, opening him up.

“Shhh,” Tim kisses his jaw, his neck, “stay with me now. Stay with me. Don’t look away. I’m here. Nothing will hurt you. Nothing…”

But it’s not true, because when Tim starts touching him, he cries out in pain, so sensitive after all these days, that even light breeze from the balcony feels like a burn on his flushed skin.

“Lube?”

“N-no,” Armie grabs him tighter, “no, I’m fine.”

After that Tim takes time, his hands gliding over Armie’s body, caressing, massaging, soothing. His smell is still alarming, and Armie has to concentrate hard, has to chase away the dark images it brings to mind.

“Stay with me,” Tim whispers again. “You’re safe. Remember, you’re safe. Always. We’ve done it so many times, darling, nothing wrong will happen.”

“Hold my wrists…”

“No, put your arms around me. Hold on to me…”

It’s so strange. It’s like the first time, feeling another male body on top of you. He opens his legs and Tim slides between them, and it’s so scary, because there will be pain, he’s sure there will be pain. If he can’t stand even the touch, then there will be pain…

There was pain… there were tears…

“Stay with me. Remember.”

Tim’s hand moves down and he starts massaging his belly, just above his groin, slow circles with his palm, and Armie shudders with his whole body, the moaning torment hidden in his gut coming alive and rising to the surface, as if summoned by a magician’s command.

“I love you,” Tim whispers. “Do you remember? Do you remember how much I love you?”

Armie nods, can’t say anything, can just grip Tim’s shoulder, his other hand fisting the sheets.

“Don’t forget. Don’t forget. Stay with me,” Tim murmurs, and Armie hears him tearing the condom wrapper. “Put your legs around me. Hold on.”

“I’m ok,” Armie looks at him. “I’m ok, I promise…”

And then he screams, because it hurts. It hurts like never before. Black spots dancing in his vision, he squeezes Tim so tightly, there is a sound of bones crunching. His bottom half is on fire. He panics, tears running down his cheeks and getting in his ears.

“Open your eyes!” Tim says urgently. “Open your eyes! Look at me! It’s all in your head. I won’t hurt you!”

Armie opens his eyes and sees that shining green he’s seen so many times.

“Don’t look away,” Tim breathes heavily, and their foreheads touch. “Like porcupines, remember?” he smiles. “Carefully, very carefully.”

“Carefully…”

Clumsily, slowly, Tim starts moving and follows the rhythm of Armie’s breathing, searching his eyes for signs of fear, measuring his scent. He smiles shakily when Armie gets hard again, and Armie can’t bear it anymore - starts laughing, hysterically, can’t stop.

“Look at us.” His body is shaking.

“Yes, look at us,” Tim sniffs and laughs, too. “We made it. Look at us,” he kisses him. “Look at us…”

What is the strongest alpha? Maybe it’s just the one who doesn’t leave you, no matter what.

 

<> 

He sees sun rising and falling on the backdrop, far away. Shadows change their density and angle, wind catches the noon fever and cools down. Once he wakes up and the sheets are blue, when they were gray before. Tim changed them, and he didn’t notice.

Another time he opens his eyes and there is a plate of sliced melon in front of him. Blanket over his shoulders like a royal mantle, he opens his mouth obediently and Tim feeds him; it’s pale and cold like winter sun, but very sweet. He licks Tim’s fingers, licks his lips. Fawns like a cat, making Tim smile.

Then it’s night. He kisses Tim’s wrists, sniffs his armpits, listens to his heart for a long time. He covers his mouth, when Tim is saying something; he spends millennia studying his bellybutton. He touches every single birthmark, road signs on destiny’s highway. He doesn’t look away from him, he can’t get enough of his cock.

There is a brief exhausted halt. They sit facing each other. Armie touches his cheek, lingers on the nose bump, traces the shape of his lips, cracks them open, reaches the fangs. Tim shivers and backs away. It unnerves him. Fangs are intimate, more intimate than touching his balls. A minute passes. Tim opens his mouth and lets him touch again, shaking from suppressed growl; all those images of defanged alphas on his mind - ultimate disgrace, worse than castration, better be dead. But he lets Armie touch them. Briefly.

Shadows come and go. He sees bruises on Tim’s forearms, on his hips. He notices scratches on his back, when Tim turns around. He tries to forget about the ugly hematoma on Tim’s chest, the size of his foot. He hasn’t seen Tim sleeping, but he’ll think about it later.

He’s greedy, ravenous, relentless. He stopped counting orgasms, but remembers the one that brought him close to fainting. Tim went to the bathroom and returned with another towel, turned him on his side and cleaned him like a baby. Tim would be a wonderful father, he thought and wanted to blow his brains out. Could be.

_What did I ever give him?_

_Worries, lectures, maybe a cracked rib now._

_If he leaves, I’ll die. You lose that one, there’s no hope for you._

_I’ll die, thankfully._

Evening, morning, towels, growls. Tim turns him on his stomach and kisses the place that no one ever wanted to kiss. Armie shudders, brimming with tears and gratitude. He can’t imagine the language that could express the depth of his love and shame, so he rolls over and uses his body, paltry substitute. From alpha to omega. Everything he has he gives.

Shadows come and go.

Tim watches him closely, his kiss frantic as an apology, binding as an oath. Armie understands, omega in him understands. He doesn’t ask, simply turns over and waits. He feels the mattress deep under Tim’s weight, his legs are spread to accommodate his alpha. Tim stands over him on all fours and breathes deeply. Armie hears a growl, the kind he’s never heard before, stormy and dark, triumphant. Anyone now comes into this room, and Tim will tear them to shreds. Another alpha crosses the fence, and it’s war.

He takes Armie in one harsh brutal movement, locks his hand behind his back and grabs his hair with the other, pulling his head to expose the neck. _I chased you long enough, now it’s over._ He leans closer and licks Armie’s left shoulder, pride-soothing gift to a conquered city.

Fangs pierce the skin, and Armie screams. He screams until he’s out of breath. Whimpers and smells blood in the air, feels it running down his chest. The grip on him doesn’t weaken; Tim’s hips are slow, methodical, unstoppable as heartbeat. Destiny. You’re nailed to your destiny. From alpha to omega, ABC catching up with DNA.

Pleasure is fire, and fire burns. His muscles contract, trying to trap Tim inside, seeking to get the most out of this coupling. When he comes, he can’t see anything, tears mix with explosions of light in his eyes. Limp, he lies letting his alpha finish and gasps weakly when his thrusts slow down, become sharper. Tim’s grip hardens, he freezes and shudders as if from a blow, lowering himself on Armie’s body and covering him from head to toe.

It all hurts – the fangs, the cock – when they leave his body. He thinks about turning over, but thinking is all it is. Through the blur he sees Tim hobbling into the bathroom, and when he returns, the burn returns – Tim licks away the blood, washes the bite with something stinging and seals it with a strip of adhesive bandage.

He prepared it in advance. Tim can’t stop being Tim.

 

<> 

First thing he sees is the lake. But he can’t be sure, he doesn’t even know what time it is, so when he looks at the clouds he can’t say at first – are they just the reflection or the clouds themselves? Waking up is slow and quiet. He glances at the clock over the fireplace - 4:25.

A.M.?

P.M.?

Yes, it was the lake. The sky is just a reflection. It feels cold, morning cold, so it must be a.m. Predawn – the loneliest time in the world.

He hears Tim’s breathing and turns to find him sleeping by his side. Though, he’s not sleeping, really - it looks like he passed out, simply fell down and couldn’t get up, couldn’t even move his hand to grab the blanket; so tired that, even shivering slightly from the cold, he can’t wake up.

Armie studies his naked body, makes himself look. Every discovery – a little stab to the heart: bruises, scratches, ribs visible like a piano keyboard, dark shadows under the eyes.

He takes the blanket and covers his alpha gently, careful not to wake him up. Covers him out of love, but also out of shame. He feels rested, calm. The wound on his shoulder hurts a little when he stretches his arm, but otherwise he is downright refreshed, as if after a spa.

The silence that bothered him before now is a blessing. He gets up slowly, finds a pair of boxers in his suitcase and goes downstairs, still trying to step as lightly as he can.

The windows downstairs are sheets of gray water – the lake is so still it looks like a picture of itself. He notices the small green light shining above the aquarium and remembers about the fish. He forgot all about it, of course. Tim didn’t.

Armie hesitates, then finds the instructions that Saoirse left, deactivates the alarm on the door and steps outside, wrapping himself in a comforter he spotted on the sofa. The grass shocks his bare feet with dew on the way to the jetty, and there is a trace of wet steps on the wooden planks behind him when he reaches the end of it and looks down into the water.

Gunmetal gray, he thinks, studying round stones visible on the bottom. He squats trying to see them clearer and then sits on the edge, thinks a moment and gingerly lowers his feet into the water. Wave of cold runs through from his heels and into his throat, and he reflexively burrows deeper into the comforter.

Predawn, time of desperation and awakening regrets; solitude so powerful, it gains shape and weight. You can hear the stars dying, their mournful light just enough to see that scariest of all things – yourself – with the clarity you always hoped you’d be spared.

What is the color of loneliness? Predawn gray, watery and cold. Shiver-on-your-skin gray. Scar-upon-your-heart gray.

Time of murderers and priests, empty streets and empty bottles, stray dogs and guilty conscience. Time to write letters you know you’ll never send, to read those you’ll never reply to; time to burn your diaries and tell the truth, to remember the names of those who didn’t make it. Time to ask yourself, “Am I one of them?”

He touches the bandage on his shoulder, feeling the heat underneath – torn skin frantically healing. Spidery fog surrounds him, and he breathes it in. Blue eyes glide over blue lake, smooth like a mirror, and he imagines leaving this jetty and walking, seemingly over water, but really over the sky.

_Am I…_

He stops, hearing light steps behind, and a moment later Tim comes and silently lowers himself beside him. Armie watches him looking at the water - he dips one toe tentatively and hastily draws his leg back, as if burned.

This simple gesture feels like a punch in the throat to Armie, and for a split second he sees dozens and dozens of possible lives, flickering in front of his eyes like a row of paintings in the gallery, all of them showing one thing – Tim lowering his foot in the lake and pulling it back. Countless radiuses run to one inevitable center and create a perfect circle, without beginning or end. Destiny.

He opens his arms in invitation, and his alpha crawls in his lap. They spend some time trying to figure out how to fit all of Tim under that comforter, and when it’s finally achieved, all is quiet again.

Armie feels him sniffing his neck and smiles, waiting for the results of the inspection. They are good, apparently, because Tim relaxes and after a couple of minutes it seems he fell asleep again.

In two days they will leave this place. Saoirse will come for the keys and to wish them a safe trip, asking if everything was alright and if they loved their stay here. They will nod, but won’t elaborate, and she won’t ask any questions. On the road, half way to the city, Tim will casually admit that he didn’t take two towels, he took five, because why not? And Armie will be appalled – appalled! - all the way to Jersey, where he’ll forget about it entirely and remember about Liz and the baby, and that hand-painted wallpaper he ordered a week ago for the “fresco lady,” and about a looming visit to the Broadway shrink. And he’ll argue that he doesn’t need it now, that shrink: we’re fine, look at us. But Tim will disagree, and they’ll bicker about it for another half an hour, until Manhattan will be in sight.

And when they finally reach home, Tim will help him to get the bags upstairs and ask Armie to do one simple thing for him - go and buy two heads of Swiss chard, while I’m returning the car, because I remembered that recipe on the road and thought I’d try it. So Armie, happy to help, will go and buy two pounds of beets, which, when Tim sees them, will turn him almost apoplectic, because how the fuck did he manage to marry a guy who doesn’t know the difference between the two? How, Armie? You tell me how? And there will be so much grumbling and growling, and a helluva lot of roasted beets as retaliation, that Armie will think that his whole heat was peanuts in comparison…

But all this will happen later, and now they are sitting on that jetty, and it’s still gray predawn, and Armie watches big lazy clouds swelling in the lake…

The longer he looks into the water, the blurrier his vision becomes, until the clouds dissolve and disappear entirely – and suddenly it’s another place, another time: electric southern sky, heat haze and buzzing mosquitoes, ten-year-old kid bites his finger and blushes, watching his parents from behind screen door. The mother is young and pretty, her bright summer dress an explosion of color in the scorched landscape. She is handing a glass of lemonade to the man, covered in motor oil, his neck glistening with sweat. His hand snakes around her waist, drawing her closer, and they are whispering and laughing, happy, ignorant of their son spying on them.

Armie looks at the boy, his blush, his smile, and his heart breaks.

A shadow, an intruder, he comes up and stands quietly by his side. So much he wants to tell him, if only he could. If only it was possible…

_I’m sorry, kid. I’m so, so sorry. Your life won’t be the way you imagine it now. None of your dreams will come true, and the world you’re seeing will cease to exist very soon._

_In just a year’s time, your puberty will start, and it’ll turn out that you’re not an alpha like everyone thought, but an omega; and your father who’s been looking for an excuse to leave for a very long time will use it to finally break free, as he’ll call it. Then you’ll see that bright vivacious woman slowly turning into a caricature of everything she’s always feared. And your brother, passing you at school, will pretend that he doesn’t know you._

_So early in life you’ll think that it’s all over. But then you’ll meet a girl, beautiful girl, wonderful girl, brave and crazy enough to get you both out of there. You’ll find hope again. On a bus, nose to the window, counting lampposts on night highway, you’ll dare to believe that it will be alright from then on._

_And oh, I’m so sorry, kid… Do you see him on that bus? He is smiling. Not like you, he’ll never smile like you again, but he is smiling nevertheless and… he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s ahead. It won’t be anything like he’s imagining it. It will be back-breaking jobs and drafty apartments, irrevocable mistakes and slow realization that this girl, this beautiful girl, she’ll never love him the way he loves her._

_Look at him, kid. Be kind to him. Remember to be kind to him, because he’ll try, he’ll try so hard to make it last, but it won’t. And when it ends, it will crush his heart like an orange._

_No, no, don’t turn away, listen. Please, listen! I know you can’t imagine it now, you can’t imagine being thirty, but you will be. Thirty and alone. And that man there, hugging her pillow and crying? That man is you… You cringing? Your father taught you that boys don’t cry? Your father is a liar, kid. Ah, but I forgot, you don’t know it yet._

_No, wait, wait, it’s not the end. It seems like it, but it’s not the end, because, you see, in a few years you’ll meet a man… A very strong man, but very unexpected. He won’t be like anything you imagine, only you won’t be either. By the time you meet him, you’ll be a burnt-out cynic masquerading as a sage, an emotional wreck scared of human touch and a total failure in your own eyes… All that, and he’ll love you anyway. Isn’t that a goddamn miracle? He’ll love you anyway…_

_I know you’re happy now, standing behind that screen door, looking at your young parents… You have no idea that it will take you twenty-five years to be this happy again. And you’re ten, you can’t imagine the desert that is twenty-five years… You don’t know what deserts do to souls._

_I’m sorry, kid… You won’t have the life you want and none of the dreams you have now will come true, but if I could go back and become you again, I wouldn’t change a single thing, a single moment, even the worst of them; I promise I’d walk that road two, five, ten more times, if I knew where it would lead me._

_Because, you see, they’re worth it, all those years of waiting and wandering - they will lead you to a short jetty on the lake full of gray sky, to the alpha fitting on your lap, to the first date and first mutual love at 35, to the happiness, sharp and quiet, never as black-and-white as you imagine it to be…_

_And happiness is…_

He blinks, blinded by the sparkling water, and looks up – burning globe is slowly clawing its way up from behind the trees, setting the lake on fire. August, that imperial month, throws its gold at his feet.

His alpha is sleeping in his lap. Happiness, he thinks, is very simple: morning, silence, light of the rising sun on the lips of your lover.

_Remember it, kid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Your presence makes this story better, especially when the author can't.


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